A Detective for a Muse
by Nameless-Sufferer
Summary: John was just homeless, trying to make due with playing guitar on the streets. He was good at it and loved performing, until he met a certain Holmes that is more so interested in his personality than his music. To that man, John is like a composition that should be heard over and over until it is fully understood. An unfinished book written halfheartedly. Eventual Johnlock!
1. Chapter 1

_Hello there! This is the beginning of a new fanfic I have been dying to write due to reading far too many Johnlock headcannons. The first chapter is always the chapter that makes an impression but I will admit that this falls below even my standards, since I normally write 5000+ word chapters. Nonetheless, I will steadily improve my word count and the fanfic altogether! _

_This is my first Sherlock fanfiction so I hope it appeals to your liking in some way?_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock whatsoever. BBC and all that. _

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><p>Observing people, deducing their little brains, was all I was doing when I happened to cross him. At first, I thought nothing of it, another unlucky man whom was doomed to the streets of London until his death came, swiftly and abruptly. He wouldn't last long; nobody ever does. People change on the streets when starvation and the cold ways touch their hearts. People can be quite contradictory to their personalities when desperation is involved, yet that didn't seem to phase the man in front of me. He appeared like he wanted it to come, his quick end, which was surprisingly odd to even my statures I suppose.<p>

He was no different than most people I have seen around these parts, an ordinary man with nothing special about him in the slightest. His clothes spoke volumes with the quality and the bad taste in general. A torn jumper splattered with remnants of perhaps his own blood and filth along a pair of denims, tattered at the hems. His shoes appeared to be almost like loafers, stained from mud and living in alleyways. He was plain to put it nicely, just somebody else to read like an open book.

"_Give me love like her,_

_'Cause lately I've been waking up alone,_

_Pain splattered teardrops on my shirt,_

_Told you I'd let them go..._"

Ah, yes. It was his voice I think that refrained my indifference stride from taking place. The voice of those whom have seen more than they let on; those were always the most intriguing to deduce. His voice was a key to it all, but he did well to hide his emotions from being too obvious from...well, those who are not nearly as intelligent to realize the meaning under his words. They were filled with emotion, more than should be placed into the song he was currently singing. Sadness, depression, forlorn, and lastly, regret. The regret was the most potent; it was a bitter, tangible resentment towards none other than himself. He was repentant of something of his past, possibly war considering the way he stood with his guitar. He was formal, but relaxed from the song of his and the emotions that refused to let him go. Interesting.

Tilting my head, I slowly inched towards the guitarist and observed his strumming fingers.

"_And that I'll fight my corner,_

_Maybe tonight I'll call ya_

_After my blood turns to alcohol,_

_No, I just wanna hold ya._

_"Give a little time to me or burn this out,_

_We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,_

_All I want is the taste that your lips allow,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my , my, give me love..._"

He plucked each string with professional talent, almost like he had been playing his entire life (perhaps he had). Each finger was slender and feather-light judging by how quickly they were willing to move to his little beat. They were almost a resemblance to doctors hands, no wait, those were doctors hands, surgeons fingers in fact. They moved like so as well, almost like they were prodding a patient for an illness. The faded wristband on his wrist with his name (I believe) and St. Claire's hospital was only more evidence to prove the talent.

He leaned on one side when he played, his right side, and avoided the use of his left shoulder at all. Injury more than likely. Scrutinizing his clothing, I noticed two dull dog tags hanging from his neck. One held the same name as the wrist band so it must be his own, but the other one was somebody else entire. Probably someone important to him or a close friend that died during a accident resulting in the gain of the tag. So he was a military man.

A military doctor seemed more likely than anything judging by his degree, but nothing added up. If he was a military soldier, or a doctor, he would have some sort of pension to last him for a while, at least enough for a cheap flat. Yet, here he stood on the streets playing his guitar.

"_Give me love like never before,_

_'Cause lately I've been craving more,_

_And it's been a while but I still feel the same,_

_Maybe I should let you go,_

_You know I'll fight my corner,_

_And that tonight I'll call ya,_

_After my blood is drowning in alcohol,_

_No, I just want to hold ya._

_Give a little time to me or burn this out,_

_We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,_

_All I want is the taste that your lips allow,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_Give a little time to me or burn this out,_

_We'll play hide and seek to turn this around,_

_All I want is the taste that your lips allow,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love,_

_My, my, my, my, oh give me love._"

I began to examine his face. It's odd how he hasn't noticed my... observing yet. Normally somebody would have looked up by now to find me, well, not looking at them obviously. Nevertheless, he continued to play, oblivious to the rest of the world and its horrendous torments. His face was furrowed at the brow, concentration, and his eyes were closed off, so he concentrates better when he is just by himself as most ordinary human beings. His mouth was set in a thin line, anger or frustration, and a tear hung on the tips of his lashes, sadness. This song brought back painful memories but he feels it's his fault and continues to play to punish himself. He's a loyal soldier then; understands loss, but knows also when he's at charge for it.

As the minutes wore on, the only phrase he repeated constantly was "my, my, my, my, oh give me love" which is quite boring and obviously childish, but I didn't want to stop him. He was like a new toy, interesting until you realize its limitations. It was only a matter of time until his entire life story was laid out before me to judge on a balance scale of boring and dull. Right now, that time hasn't appeared yet.

"I can see you looking at me," I heard him whisper just loud enough for me to hear. I just stared back with indifference, "Yes, your playing his quite above mediocre it appears, so is it not normal to stop and enjoy the...setting?"

He chuckled and shook his head. I saw him take a breath and expected a response when all I got were more vocals.

"_Of all the money that e'er I had,_

_I've spent it in good company_

_And all the harm that e'er I've done_

_Alas it was to none but me_

_And all I've done for want of wit_

_To memory now I can't recall_

_So fill to me the parting glass_

_Good night and joy be with you all..._"

I wanted to speak out against him for not responding to my question, but the raw emotion in his words rendered me speechless. It was a sensation I don't ever want to feel. It made me feel weak and human.

"_Of all the comrades that e'er I had_

_They are sorry for my going away_

_And all the sweethearts that e'er I had_

_They would wish me one more day to stay_

_But since it falls unto my lot_

_That I should rise and you should not_

_I'll gently rise and I'll softly call_

_Good night and joy be with you all..._"

Ah, I understood now. This part was specifically for the people he lost during war it seems. The hidden allusions and the meaning behind most of his words were worthy of interest, but it still was nothing more than human sadness. It was common for people to feel sad for death even though it's quite trivial in terms that everybody eventually comes to the same end. He must of lost the person in a unnatural way. If he's a doctor, maybe he lost him at the table or gurney in the desperate process of trying to save him. That makes sense.

"_A man may drink and not be drunk_

_A man may fight an not be slain_

_A man may court a pretty girl_

_And perhaps be welcomed back again_

_But since it had so ought to be_

_By a time to rise and a time to fall_

_Come fill to me the parting glass_

_Good night and joy be with you all..._"

A final strum of the vibrant strings, "_Good night and joy be with you all..._"

He stood on the sidewalk, staring at his feet idly before shaking himself out of whatever stupor he was in. He looked as if he was about to play another song when I noticed his calloused fingers starting to crack and bleed. So he doesn't play everyday. He just played when he was younger and hasn't grown used to it again. The unseasonably cold weather didn't seem to be helping either as he tried to keep his hands warm. Idiot, that isn't going to do much unless you have gloves, which might I add, he does not.

"Your hands are starting to bleed," I informed the guitarist and he froze a little before shoving his fingers in his pockets, his acoustic guitar hanging on only by the strap around his neck.

"Yeah, they are, but that is of no business to you," he replied cautiously. So he didn't trust people as easily as thought. He probably earned that from the war background and the constant change of sides.

"Ah, I suppose not," I mused before questioning, "How are you liking London doctor?"

I saw him stiffen out of the corner of my eye and smirked.

"H-How did you know I was a doctor? And that I haven't been in London for long?" He was obviously shocked from my deducing.

Rolling my eyes, I turned to him and walked a step closer. People always asked the same thing, just different parts of their past.

"Your fingers."

He stuttered, "M-My fingers?"

"Your fingers are slender and fleet around quickly. They also always to be clean and sanitized, judging from the state of you nails, probably a five minute wash which is typical for a doctor before he even enters a hospital setting."

"Perhaps I just like cleaning my hands," He spoke defensively.

"Oh please. The way your fingers moved is obviously not the normal way for fingers to flit across the strings of a guitar. They flew like when you prod a patient, testing the vitals for specific symptoms. Also, may I add that you have recent indentations from possibly a syringe or stethoscope meaning that you were, past tense since you were obviously fired with the lack of an ID, scrubs, or medical supplies, recently seen by somebody who required such. Unless you are a drug user, which you are not, I don't see much else of an explanation to see why you can't be a doctor."

His jaw opened with a pop and I wanted to chuckle but decided against it, "As for the London part, don't bother saying you weren't going to ask since I could see the question fleeting to the front of your mind, you are a soldier, correct? The dog tags on your neck are recent, though you obviously don't take as much care of them as you did before. One is yours, the one at front I would presume since it matches the wristband around your carpals. The other is more reflective of light, better taken care of, so it's a good friend, no? Anywho, you are still walking like a soldier does and judging by how you respond and stand, you just got back recently. If I am correct, the most recent ship of soldiers that returned home were from overseas, and your tan concludes that you were in that area, and therefore, that ship."

As I gave this information to him, I saw him shake his head with utter astonishment. Hmm, usually people would be pissed off about now.

"Brilliant. Absolutely extraordinary."

I cocked my head to the side, "Extraordinary?"

He smiled a little with a light chuckle, "Yes. That was just... utterly phenomenal."

I gave a small smile of my own, "That's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?"

My smile widened a little more as I remembered everybody who gave me a glare or a terrified pause, "ah... piss off."

The doctor blinked before giggling. It didn't take long for me to join in as well. The atmosphere seemed to have gotten significantly lighter with the little mentioning.

All was interrupted when the sound of my stomach was heard. Ah yes, food, that's what I was doing before being intrigued by the man next to me. I didn't want to eat, didn't need to since work was more important and, might I add, exciting. Breathing is boring. Eating is boring. Sleeping is boring. Cases and homicides were... rushing.

"I suppose that is your queue to leave then Mr...?" He inquired.

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

He nodded, "The names John Watson, formally Dr. Watson, but John will do. Well, it was nice meeting you, mate. Hopefully I'll see you around here," with that he turned slowly to walk down the alley he came from. He looked sad with the heavy steps he planned and planted. It was a sad sight yes, but I felt no sentiment for the man. He understood what situation he was in.

Nonetheless, that didn't stop me from trying to find out more about him.

"Excuse me, Dr. Watson?" I shouted out to the slumping form. John turned around to look at me with mild surprise and relief.

He walked back to me and stood a few feet away, obviously unaccustomed to being close to people, "Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

I groaned at the formalities. It was the same thing they called my brother and I'd like to refrain from being known the same as that individual.

"You can just call me Sherlock. I don't necessarily do well with formalities. With that said, isn't it normally a reaction to give the entertainer money or a tip for his performance?"

John blinked and didn't say anything.

I rolled my eyes, "Oh come on John. It's obviously you don't have anywhere to go at this time, right? Right. You had heavy steps, not the brisk stride of a doctor, meaning you were going to wander aimlessly, correct?"

He nodded slowly, "Yes...?"

I smirked a little at his response, "So, would you care to join me for brunch? I don't plan on eating anything, but if I'm seen eating with someone, perhaps... somebody will stop pestering me about my habits."

His hesitation was so thick it was almost visible.

I gave an exasperated sigh, "Oh come on John. It's my treat."

With a sigh of his own, more so resentment I suppose, he nodded, "Fine. Lead the way Sherlock. Thank you by the way... prat."

I chuckled softly at the insult and made my way to the cafe of my choice.

"Perhaps we could even bandage those virtuous fingers of yours while we are at it."

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><p><em>Yeah...I cannot write Sherlock to save the life of me, but I promise to get better! I have been reading roughly 5 50+ fanfics as of late as well as rewatching seasons 1-3 of the series (going onto my 4th time) so I will eventually get to a good accuracy with him.<em>

_John...I have a serious headcannon that he plays acoustic guitar. I have had it so yeah. It just seems... correct in one way or another in my screwed up mind._

_Oh! The song was Give Me Love by Ed Sheeran. Prepare for a lot of that guy since I'm a fan of his music and I'd like to imagine John singing those songs (I also have a specific Taylor Swift song set aside, but you won't hear that one just yet~)_

_But that's it! The next chapter may be up in a day or two due to my addiction. It's a drug that I can't get rid of._

_Ciao~ Reviews and criticism is always loved~~_


	2. Chapter 2

_Edit: Thanks to a reader, Sendai, I have fixed a single error. If any of you see any mistakes, please tell me. :) _

__Hello again. I'm sorry for the short chapter ugh. I was trying to make it long, but normally my first two chapters of anything are fillers for plot and story. The third chapter, on the other hand, will be long. I aim for at least five-thousand words with that one considering I get to write about a murder in all its gruesome glory. I love writing murders and enjoy thinking of planning one, but no, I don't plan to commit one. For now, fantasies and scenarios will have to work.__

__Now, this one is a filler, not much happening, but it will get more interesting. I hope you recognize some of the quotes in this chapter since they are from the actual show with slight, slight changes.__

__Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock whatsoever.__

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><p>I felt my eyebrows furrow as I watched John from across the table. He had his head low, almost like he was ashamed and trying to hide his face, and tried to eat as quietly as possible. Every little movement of his was silent as the light snow falling outside. Little contact was made with anybody, except the occasional glance at myself. He was trying to not gather attention due to the fact that he was a "low-life" talking to a man like me. How typical; sad, but typical. Nobody really cares here who is with whom considering that I aided one of the owners in this place. John really has no fear for anything, at least as long as I'm around, though I doubt he will take the advice from a man whom partially abducted him for brunch out of mere curiosity for his personality.<p>

Speaking of curiosity...

"John," He jumped up and looked at me with wide eyes before closing them and opening them with light weariness, "You don't have to hide your face here. The people here don't necessarily care about the company much as they care about the appetite they have in the first place. Stop worrying about such trivial, boring things."

Really John. Worry and sadness are quite melancholy feelings that shouldn't be felt for more than a few hours. It's not good for your health, he should know, he's a doctor.

John looked back and me and smiled a little ashamed, "Yeah, sorry. I just feel a bit self-conscious right about now."

I nod, "Understandable. You are wearing old, torn up clothing and your complexion is quite filthy, so I can see your point," he was about to argue before I continued, "but, as I said earlier, nobody here cares about that. As far as they are concerned, your just another... colleague of Sherlock Holmes."

He huffed, "My clothes are perfectly fine," he grumbled and I raised a brow, "Okay, they are decent," I turned my face away in mock disdain, "Fine, they are in bad condition, but I don't have the money, nor the convenience, to go shopping for some high-class clothes such as yours. These clothes still fit me and as long as I occasionally sew up the ripped up parts, they are perfectly fine for another two weeks."

I give him a look of pity before wiping it from my face. Judging from his sagging shoulders and darkened face, he probably doesn't want any sympathy or pity at the time, especially my own. He is probably relishing the horrible memories as to why he had to resort to such methods. Ah, memories. It must be horrible sighting something and immediately having a flashback to the war zone. Guns in play, eyes peeled for the smallest of movements. He looked like he was having one of those moments judging by how he flinched at my experimental drop of the pen in my hand. He looked at me and glared at the smile on my lips.

It was amusing to see his reactions, despite how unmoral it was. I'm practically testing his tangible PTSD by preforming this, but boredom is a real and valid issue at this time. He wasn't doing anything interesting and pulling out his guitar was out of the question with how skittish he was and the fact that he thought he would attract attention. Perhaps I should question something... normal. Wait, no, normal is boring. Well, so is breathing, but I suppose it wouldn't kill me. Maybe.

"John, do you have a phone per chance?"

Tilting his head, he nodded and took his out. It was old, not any of the newer, more recent versions I have seen. All the same it was an electronic cellular device of some sort so I didn't care as to its condition. I held out my hand but he didn't immediately move to place the small piece of technology in my awaiting palms, "Why do you want it?"

"I need to text someone, but I appear to have left my phone at home," I smiled apologetically.

He didn't fall for it like most do, but rolled his eyes nonetheless, "Fine. Just don't hack the bloody thing please. Like I said earlier-"

"You don't have the money to spend on electronics and decent clothing. Yes, yes I understand. May I please see the phone now?"

Shaking his head, John slapped the phone into my palm, watching me like a curious cat or animal of sorts. He was worried by how I would treat his phone no doubt. Please, I'm a high-functioning sociopath, but I'm not a rabid beast. I do have some dignity in me, actually, quite a bit in retrospect to the observing John Watson. He looked like he would take away the toy if I started preforming anything discreet. That's no fun. I wish he would at least joke or something to make this less boring.

"Well? Are you going to text whomever you must?" He questioned curiously, eying my stilled fingers. I grinned and immediately started placing my number into john's cell while observing the marks on the phone, "Ah, yes. Sorry, I blanked out for a bit." Not really, but that seems the normal response to give.

"Your phone – it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift then. Scratches – not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already." I caught a faint glimpse inside the phone and sighed as I clicked the okay button to enter my number, "Well?"

He blinked, "The engraving?"

"Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to love. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic-"

"Wait," John shook his head to shake him from his stupor, "h-how did you-"

I sighed and glared at him, "Should I continue or do you not want to hear the rest?"

He smiled a little, "Why for you to show off? Sure why not."

"Anyways, as I was saying. The three kisses says a romantic attachment but since it's only 6 months old, marriage issues were stated clearly, yes? Nonetheless, he's giving it to you. Don't give me that look John. If she had left him, he would keep it as sentiment, something to remember her by but no, he's trying to get rid of it so he left her. He gave the phone to you to keep in touch."

"How do you keep so much breath in those lungs of yours?"

"Off-topic John. Why are you not going to your brother for help? Trying not to disappoint?"

He shrugged, "I don't want to be a bother, and yes, I'm already a disappointment. No, I'm not going to explain that any further to you. I don't even know you yet you seem to know everything about me as if it was on Wikipedia for everyone to see."

"No, your just a open book. Not as open as everyone else, but an open one nonetheless."

Sighing, he glared at me with curiosity, not anger, "How could you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Oh john, give me some credit here. It was more of a shot in the dark, but a good one, correct? The charger. The power connection is jammed and slightly scratched indicating forced entry and also a adjustment of the mind to not be able to place the charger in correctly. Scuff marks around the edges indicate that he had shaky hands. These marks are a drunks. Something a drunk man can't leave without and a sober man would never do."

"Amazing," he breathed. Huh, that's a first.

I shrugged and rose a eyebrow to see if my deductions were on the dot or not. More so the first than the latter.

A little bewildered, John smiled, "your correct. Although your off by one point."

My eyebrow rose. A mistake?

He smirked as he leaned over, one arm what on the table and the other propping his head up, "Harry is short for Harriet."

I froze and blinked before swearing to myself. John seemed to find this amusing and laughed. I pouted, unaccustomed to missing a fact about someone.

A hand patted my shoulder and I looked up to see it was John.

"It's okay, mate. Everybody makes mistakes."

"I don't," I grumbled sullenly.

"Oh shut up, you just did."

Ouch. Rubbing some salt in the wound, John.

"No I didn't. I just forgot something. It obviously just slipped my mind."

John rolled his eyes, "Whatever you say, mate, but you don't seem the type to forget such a detail as that if you know what I mean. But whatever floats your show-off boat."

I shrugged, "I have talents. I'm going to use them, John."

"No your going to throw them around. I don't normally say this, but you're a arrogant bloke to others. You know that's not a good way to make friends."

"I don't have nor do I need friends."

John blinked at my cold voice, not expecting it in the slightest. He thought I was going to feel pity or guilt for myself. Well, I'm sorry John to disappoint you, but friends are not necessary in my life. Besides, nobody ever lasts long enough to be considered more than somebody I knew for a day or so, you being one of them. Friends don't mean anything to me. I get bored, eccentric, and at times, completely irrational to some so I there is nobody who can fully be capable of controlling and conversing with a creature at that. I'm married to my work and friendships would only get in the way of it.

I saw him take a deep breath, "O...kay, then. Um... I'm sorry to hit a nerve?"

I nodded to him silently and looked out the window, occasionally glancing back at John for an observation.

He appeared to like the sunlight, even if it was clouded by the light snow. Each flurry attracted his gaze and every little movement made him dash his attention to the next object. He obviously still held some oversea genes in him by how he kept an eye on anything that moved. His hands were constantly in a fist, but would occasionally flatten out to indicate his relaxation. He was a skittish man, afraid to stay in one place for long considering how he was tapping his foot. Even though his face was rotated to look out the window, his body was turned towards the door as if he needed to think of a quick escape at any moment. He didn't seem to adapt well to London at all.

If that was the case, why did he come here at all?

"John," He turned towards me again but his body was still in a path to the door, "Your phone?"

He blinked and watched as I slid his phone across the little table, "Thank you for letting me use it." I gave one of my fake, but satisfactory smiles to him.

"Ah, yes. Your welcome." Not much of a talker, eh?

"If I may ask Dr. Watson, why did you come to London?"

He smirked, "I thought you could deduce that already from just looking at my, oh I don't know, nose or something? You've been spot on so far, except for my sister. What's stopping you now?"

I shrugged, "Curious of your side of the story. Humor me."

He turned his body and full attention to me, trying to figure me out. Sorry John, only one person can do that and luckily he isn't here.

"Why are you so curious of my nature and my oh so boring life, Mr. Holmes?"

"Sherlock," I corrected automatically, "and because your an open book with unfinished pages every other page of the story. It seems like every page of your book is cut in half so only half is revealed and the rest is hidden. I'm just piqued to hear the other side of the story, and to complete it."

"So you were bored?" He deadpanned and I shrugged before nodding.

"Yes, quite."

"And I just happen to be there for your little mind fingers to pick apart?"

I gave him a look, "mind fingers? Your vocabulary is rather surprising John since I expected something rather elaborate, but to answer your question, no. Your expression and the way you kept off from anybody attracted my attention. Mainly the thought that you were a doctor with the army, yet you have no money at all from serving with them. It's interesting really."

He looked away, a little on edge, "They had to let me go. That is all, nothing more."

I raised my eyebrow at him, "Don't lie to me John. I know there is more than what you say judging by how you can't look at me when you lie."

Glancing back at me, he sighed and deliberated what to say to me.

It was at that moment that I felt a vibration in my pocket. Performing my own little sigh, I opened up the text.

"Hey! I thought you forgot your phone!"

I smile mischievously, "I'm sorry John. I had to test to see how oblivious you were and I'm sad to say that you are more so than not."

Groaning a little, he sat down in the chair and leaned back all the way, arms crossed over his chest, "I swear. How do people deal with you on a day to day basis?"

I frowned, "They don't. I'm normally alone except for the occasional check-up from the land lady or a weekly murder case to solve."

"Murder cases?"

"Yes John, didn't you hear me? In fact, I have one here as well."

****Lestrade****  
><em><em>Triple Homicide, I'm sure you already know where.<em>_

I could feel the excitement enter my veins as the possibilities weld up in my mind.

"Sherlock?"

I looked up at John, who was eying my phone with curiously and then myself. He was already on his feet with his guitar case strapped to his back.

"Ah, yes, John?"

He was bouncing on both feet, feeling the need to go to somewhere safe in his standards no doubt.

"Does this conclude our.. brunch?"

I thought about it. I could say yes and have a goodbye returned to me in which I may never see the very interesting doctor again. Or, I could mention the murder and see if he could diagnose the body. Anderson doesn't appreciate my qualities like John and I can't stand Anderson at all. His IQ could send signals to lower everybody else. John, albeit a little dirty, could be a tad better. He seemed a little interested at least.

"Actually, I was curious."

He stopped, "Yes?"

"Would you be able to diagnose a body?"

"Yes?"

"A dead one?"

He paused and eyed me wearily.

"Really John. I'm not the murderer, please, and if I was, I wouldn't let anyone find the body. Now, would you be able to diagnose the time of death or how the said victim died? It's very crucial might I add."

He thought about it and nodded, "Yes, I should be able to diagnose the body based on symptoms and the overall rigor mortis of the body. Why do you ask?"

I smirked, "I believe I might have found you a new job Dr. Watson."

He eyed me suspiciously, "A new job?"

I rolled my eyes in retaliation, quite annoyed by how he missed the obvious, "As my assistant of course. Well, not necessarily an assistant per say, but you will follow me around and help me solve murder cases when it comes that I need your help. That wouldn't happen to often of course since nothing stumps me, but you can aid with the common diagnosis of the murders I suppose."

His mouth flattened into a thin line before pursing at my proposal, "And, what makes you think I will take this 'new job'?"

I smirked, "Where else have you to go, John?" He blinked at my response, "Come on, John. It's going to be very not boring I promise. Every murder brings more games to play and right now, the game is on to track down the murderer of this case."

Sighing, he just glared at me, "Fine. But where will I stay? As we have clearly made sure to acknowledge before, I have no money at all. Bloody broke in fact."

I gave him a look. Wasn't it not obvious? I guess not or he wouldn't have asked.

"I thought it was obvious to you, John. I mean, you are a doctor, correct? Shouldn't you be able to deduct simple things? You will stay at my place of course!"

He sputtered, "N-No! I couldn't possibly-"

"Of course you can. I have a spare room and I've been keeping a keen eye for someone to be my flat mate. I suppose you will do considering that you haven't fled the cafe due to my deductions yet."

The sudden proposal must have exhausted him. 'He reacts very openly' I observe silently as his muscles relax in defeat. I saw him lean onto his hand and rub the bridge of his nose. He looked frustrated, but worn out, "I still don't know anything about you though besides that you are quite the annoying little pest that most wouldn't enjoy having on them."

I chuckled a little, "All in due time John. Nonetheless, I want to make sure before we continue. You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor."

He nodded, "Yes."

"Any good?"

He thought about it for a moment before nodding with a smirk of his own on his lips, "Very good."

I leaned on the table slightly, "Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths." I wanted to test his wits, to see if death scared him. I couldn't possibly have a man frightened of a little blood in my flat, that would be utterly exhausting. Emotionally and physically with trying to calm the man down. Then again, if he was I would probably take back my offer on the spare room...

"Well, yes." It was like he was mocking me a little but I brushed it aside.

"Bit of trouble too I bet."

A soft chuckle, "Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

Now I grinned, excitement peeling into my features, "Wanna see some more?"

He gave me a weird look and smiled despite himself, "Oh god yes."

* * *

><p><em><em>Sorry, I know this chapter was probably terribly hard to read through. Trust me, I'm not a huge fan of slow chapters either, but the next one is a GUARANTEE interest picker-upper. Trust me. I know my murders quite well. Plenty of research and nightmares do that to you.<em>_

__Oh, I know the fanfic may say JohnLock since it is going to be one EVENTUALLY. I'm a realistic guys. I know the duo won't fall head over heels in just ten chapters, that's like one of those rom coms. No, it will take quite a bit considering Sherlock and John's relationship. There will be obvious developments toward the ship, but not a 2 minute jump from just talking to sucking faces or something. =w="__

__Well, that's it! I hope to have the third chapter out within a few days at most. I can kinda shoot these out there every few days since school is boring, homework is boring, breathing is boring, but writing is interesting.__

__Ciao~ Review and criticize please~!__


	3. Chapter 3

_Ugh, I promised murder and all the good stuff this chapter, but I can't do it in this chapter. Next chapter can have it, but I wanted to get this out to you and decided to leave it as this? I have the murder all planned out though :33 Every ounce of it. The deductions, the flaws, the clever disguises, everything! :33 I can't wait to see what you guys think then! This is more of a filler then plot I guess =w=_

_Well, enjoy!_

_((Do not own Sherlock whatsoever))_

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><p><strong>John<strong>

"So, I get fired and hired in the same day," I concluded to myself, staring aimlessly out the window, "I can't _wait_ to see what he has in store next. I wouldn't be surprised if he had an elephant in his flat or even a dead body to be honest. Both maybe."

Using my index finger, I rubbed it against the condensed glass to draw figures. They were simple little drawings. A stick figured man here and a stick figured cat there; they were nothing more than doodles to pass the time. We must have been in this cab for roughly 5 minutes now and I felt bored out of my mind. I wanted something interesting to happen, blimey, even a harsh deduction from the stoic, stubborn man by me would be better than sitting here in silence and trying to be as small as possible.

Where are we even going? I heard him give the address, Flat 221B Baker Street it seems. Is that his place? I think I passed that area while I was wandering around the city for a place to rest and play. It seemed like a normal neighborhood for a unusual man like him. I expected him to live in a place like a mansion, but he probably doesn't like flaunting his wealth if he did have any, not like I care. I'll eventually get an actual job so I'm not chasing dead bodies and criminals, but that probably won't be until I get settled. The bloke was nice enough to offer anyways. It'd be rude to just walk out after he just asked.

"So... what do you do?" I questioned idly. Scolding myself for such a stupid question, I kept a eye on him, hoping for a response to escape this suffocating silence. Even the cabbie wasn't uttering a word or playing music.

He raised a brow at me, "Why don't you tell me? I'm sure you have a few deductions of your own."

I gave a chuckle and thought it over, "Well, you obviously are not a part of the police, you don't have a badge on you at all and you don't seem the type to enjoy it. That being paper work, of course," I glanced over to see him smiling and continued, "I would say a private detective..."

"But?" He inquired, eying me with curiosity.

"But," I started, "Police don't come to private detectives, do they?"

He smirked, "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world."

I blinked at him before chuckling lightly, "I've never heard of it before."

"That's because I invented the job. My own personal title you could say."

I rolled my eyes, "Of course you did. How did I not expect anything less?" I muttered this more so to myself than to Sherlock as I looked outside again, not really done with talking to him, but satisfied nonetheless. One could only talk to him so long before getting a tinge annoyed after all.

"Talking to yourself is making you look crazy, John."

I turned my face to glare at him. It's making me look crazy says the man who just abruptly picked a random man off the street for help on a murder of all things. He doesn't even look the type to trust people like me, so I don't get it. I don't get him.

"So is creating your own bloody job! Are you secretly mad?" I asked him, narrowing my eyes.

He laughed, "Actually, no. I'm perfectly sane if you mean I'm emotionally incapable, but if you mean that I do preposterous things to calm my boredom, then yes. I would say that I am mad. Anything else?"

I groaned, "When will we be at the crime scene?" I was starting to get annoyed a little, but at least I wasn't bored out of my mind.

He stared at me with bewilderment then with seriousness, "John, you do know how you appear right?"

I considered the attire and state I was in and nodded, getting the picture, "Yeah yeah. I know. I should probably take a shower and get some new clothes..."

"Yes. That would probably be best. Otherwise, people may think your just a stalker I have taken under my wing," he spoke carelessly.

My eye twitched, "Yes. That would be terrible, wouldn't it?"

"Utterly terrifying."

I shook my head and stared out the window, muttering to myself, "I'd still appear more decent then the corpse itself. A warm shower wouldn't hurt either. I've been in these rags and tatters for way too long."

**Sherlock**

I peeked over at John before looking away. It was true I needed a flat mate, or actually more so that everybody else thought I needed one. They said I was too antisocial but don't they understand I'm married to my work and don't have the time to make "best friends"? I don't even have one friend, not that I am complaining of course. I don't need them anyways, never have, but I have a feeling that if I hadn't chosen one, they would have enforced it to the point that they'd pay somebody to move in with me. That was out of the question or more so unbearable. What if the man/woman was another Anderson?

I'd rather jump off a roof top than associate my flat with him or any of his likes.

I sigh and watch as we turn on Baker Street. At least I persuaded John to at least see the flat. Though, he did seem rather reluctant. I can understand why, but shouldn't he be grateful that he isn't living on the streets like the homeless circle I know? I would prefer a flat to the streets, so shouldn't he feel the same? Nonetheless, I suppose I am a stranger to him. He would probably leave, like most do, but at least he is attending it. The flat won't be a silent void of nothing for a few minutes, not that I am agitated when it is, it's just nice and different.

As we were slowing down, I threw some cash in the drivers face and jumped out. I heard the commotion behind me intensify as a quite confused John Watson followed suit. His face was quite comical but I held back the chuckle. He probably wouldn't enjoy that. Though, I will admit, he was a bit slow, considering he was a soldier with quick reflexes. He was probably used to the cab stopping before leaving it like most people. Boring people. Well John, I hope you learned you lesson. I am not "most people" and am not related to anything of that certain adjective. I tapped my foot a little to emphasize my impatience, but I made it so subtle to see if he would notice it.

He did and looked up to me with raised eyebrows, "You are quite the impatient man are you not?"

I gave him a blank stare, "Problem?"

Shaking his head, he waved the cabbie off, "No. Not at all. I just have never seen anybody utterly excited about somebody's death."

I smiled, "Isn't it fun?"

"Not when it's a living person. Like I stated earlier, the victim was a living individual and now they're murdered in some bloody place unnatural I would suppose. How is that fun?"

I frowned, "I was hoping you would go a little deeper than that John."

Rolling his eyes, he jogged a little to catch up to me at the door, rarely using his cane at all. Eying the useless utensil, I realized the limp he held before wasn't as noticeable as before. Actually, it was near non-existent meaning it was psychosomatic. It was triggered by stress or even memories of his past. He has a therapist obviously. Who else would he console with about his "terrible" days as a medical doctor? She seems to often bug him about using the cane but it's clear he doesn't like it and tries to avoid using it at all costs. Of course, this only emphasizes his limp, another aspect he greatly dislikes.

I looked around him before looking at him again.

"What?" he grumbled, confused as to why I was looking everywhere but him.

"Your...guitar?"

His eyes widened and I heard him swear as he remembered that he left it in the cabbie, "Bloody hell. I-. Is there any why I can call and get it back?"

I shrugged, "I highly doubt it John. You don't even have a number to begin with to dial and the odds of you getting the same cab again are a slim chance, don't you think?" His shoulders slumped at my deduction and a small amount of pity entered my thoughts before being swept off. The guitar was precious to him, a family heirloom? No, not that important. He uses it daily, or at least he did before he left for overseas. It was a gift, probably from his mother gathering from the sharpie scroll on the back and the significant little note that only a mother would leave for her son's... perhaps 16th birthday. He got it while still in school, but not too young. The wear and tear on the instrument was one of being handled and played everyday for at least 2 years. He obviously went overseas at 18, or as soon as he could, so 16 was the most reasonable age group. He treasured it so his mother might have passed soon after he got it. He holds it dear to him. Sentiment really.

"Did you play for your mother when she was dying?"

He looked at me with wide eyes, "w-what? How did you-?"

I shook my head, not bothering with an explanation for once, "That's of no importance. Did you play for your mother when she was dying?"

"I'm not even going to hide my awe in how you knew that, but to answer your question, yes. I-I played for her when she was dying."

"What of?"

Another sigh, "lung cancer. Terrible really. We didn't even know till the week after my birthday."

I gave a small smile. I understood the shock, but of a different scenario, "What did you play? Wait, no, don't answer that. You made your own composition of music did you not? Probably something slow and intricate to make peace with your mother, correct?"

"Yes. It was a small piece. I believe I called it Shattered... Maybe some day I'll play it again, if I ever get my acoustic back again that is."

I opened my mouth again but he swiftly cut me off, "No more Sherlock. We have a case to get to correct and you won't let me go anywhere near it without me being of decency so let's get into the flat of yours."

"It's your fault for taking so long getting out of the cab."

His eye twitched slightly, very slightly. "Sherlock! I swear... You are supposed to wait for the cab to stop before jumping out, not the other way around," John huffed as he caught up to me at my door. I shrugged and was about to walk in when Mrs. Hudson revealed herself behind the door, a smile tugging on her lips.

"Sherlock! What have you been doing? I came out here to see what the noise was about, but instead I find you and..." her voice drifted off as she eyes John. Ah, she suspected it to be a possible love interest. I could tell she wanted me to find someone to "mellow me out" and relax with. Doesn't everybody? No, I'm the exception. Always have been. I'm married to my work and I won't divorce it for little simple matters as dates and remembering anniversaries or any of that trivial nonsense.

I could John was uncomfortable, sensing the meaning of her gaze on him, "colleague. Sherlock... wanted me to see his flat for a possible flat mate? I'm sorry if it is of any inconvenience to you." He shuffled slightly, giving a sheepish grin to the mother-like figure.

"Oh! No, no, no dear! Don't apologize. I was just surprised since Sherlock has never brought anyone home in interest of sharing a flat," she leaned into John as she tried to whisper something, but I could still hear it, "He's so alone the poor dear! I hope that you stay."

John chuckled lightly as I rolled my eyes and sauntered into the flat. I was immediately met with a wave of warmth and sighed, glad to be back at my flat, even if it was for only a few short moments. It was warm compared to the chilly scenery outside, a lot more... livable really. Furrowing my brow, I tilted my head and sniffed the air, only catching glimpses of what the object in question was. As I realized what it was, that being chocolate chip cookies no doubt, a smile spread on my lips. She was cooking something because of my apparent incapability to cook something without it turning into an experiment or just not eating at all. Nothing could get past Mrs. Hudson though. She constantly badgered me to eat so I'm not all "Blood and bones". Always on my heels with a plate of pancakes or a bowl of soup she was. Now though, I don't have time. Even if I wanted to stay and chat, I had little time to actually enjoy a meal with a exciting murder case on my mind.

With that, I briskly walked up the stairs, making my steps a tad heavier to indicate to John to follow.

"Ah, I believe I should be following him now. Thank you Mrs. Hudson for letting my stay, even if temporarily," John spoke as he walked up the stairs as well. It pleased me that he knew the subtle signs by now, considering the short amount of time we have been even together. He was trying to catch up to me, that much was apparent, but his limp came back. That was probably my fault for mentioning his mother. When he walked and how he used his cane every so often for leverage were indicators that it was flaring up. Perhaps the stress of the situation and the sudden invitation had been bothering him as well, making his psychosomatic limp ever more apparent in terms of posture and step.

Waiting for him on the top step, I opened the door and walked in. That was when I heard his steps cease.

Turning, I saw him stare at my (or what used to be) living room with a mixture of astonishment and bewilderment. It took me a minute to realize that my accommodations might not have been in their best state at this time. Books were scattered from the last case and files were thrown roughly on the couch. I had board games stacked gallantly on the bookcase, almost tipping over in fact. A cup of cold, half-drunk tea was on the end table, completely forgotten. A few test tubes and flasks with a toe here or some other experiment there were placed in various places as well, but was mostly condensed in the kitchen.

Speaking of the kitchen, I believe we are out of milk...

"So... This is the flat of Sherlock Holmes I presume?" John asked with a hint of uncertainty.

"Um... Yes, well you see, I could tidy this place a little. It's just that I haven't-"

John held up his hand, "No need for explanation. I kind of assumed it would be like this since your mind normally reflects your type of living," he shrugged, "we'll just have to clean it later. Now, I don't have any clothes to change into so..."

I blinked. _We'll_ just have to clean it later. Not you. We'll. Maybe I haven't scared him off yet... Interesting.

Right clothes, "Ah, give me a moment. I might have some clothes I can spare until you gather your own. They might be a tad big," I mentioned, idly measuring his height to my own. Yes, they would be quite big on him. He might have to roll the cuffs to his liking to make it work.

Rushing to my room, I pulled out one of my suits. I rarely had any casual wear so hopefully this will work for now. I walked back outside only to see John talking with Lestrade who was eyeing me with raised eyebrows, obviously curious.

I furrowed my brows, "Lestrade? What are you doing here? I thought you would be at the crime scene by now."

He chuckled, "I was until I realized that you were uncharacteristically late to the body and decided to make sure you weren't knocked out," he motioned to the room, "I'm surprised that you haven't yet to be honest from this mess."

I rolled my eyes and gave the suit to John, whom was eying Lestrade warily. I should probably introduce the two before things get out of hand.

"Ah yes, John, this is Jeff-"

"Greg," Lestrade corrected.

"-Lestrade, Private Investigator at the Scotland Yard. Lestrade, this is John Watson, army doctor and soon to be partner with crimes."

Lestrade smirked a little, "Found yourself a man that can stand you _and_ move in with you? Color me surprised." I could tell he was joking and chuckled in return.

"I'm actually just getting used to him to be honest," John chimed in, a little of a smile on his lips as well. Turning to the man, he held out his hand in which Lestrade took it with a firm shake, "Nice to meet you mate. Hopefully we can be friends."

"Yeah. That would be great," he responded lightly, already used to the doctor's kind personality.

"John..." I hinted, sparing glances to the bathroom down the hall. John took the hint and thanked Lestrade before taking my suit and walking briskly to get cleaned for probably once in a few days.

Once the door was shut, Lestrade patted me on the back. I stood rigid as he did so but relaxed after a minute. He barely took any notice.

"I'm proud of you, kid. You actually tried to find somebody who can fill in this empty place of yours. He seems nice enough, maybe he'll give you some good habits like cleaning. Where did you find him? You said he was an army doctor so did you kidnap him once he got off?"

I shook my head, a faint smile, "Actually no, I found him on the corner with a guitar in hand. He was playing a song actually that interested me."

Lestrade blinked, "You found him on the street? He seems so nice though."

"He is. He still has those formal roots in him that makes him stand out to most. He was recently let off his job and he had no money to go around. I figured I would take him in."

He shook his head, "You? Take in a random stranger off the streets? How uncharacteristic of you. Not that I'm complaining of course. I trust your judgment and if you think he is a good man, then I will go off that thought as well. Can't say the same for Anderson and Donovan though."

"I have little patience to what they think about me or who I happen to be associated with, Lestrade. You know this I'm sure."

"I know I know. But hear me out, you may be able to dismiss the criticism like swatting flies, but John isn't you. He's more..."

"Human?"

"Not what I was going to say. He just has a more free emotional personality then you. Yes he may be used to it from his time overseas and yes he may look like he is perfectly fine, but he isn't you. He will be affected by it, even if it looks otherwise."

I looked at Lestrade with a narrowing of my eyes, "Since when did you become my therapist in terms?"

A chuckle, "Since you came into the first case and since you opened that brilliant mind of yours to me, kid."

After that we idled around, cleaning up some of my mess while we awaited John to get out. It didn't take too long, maybe 15 minutes, for him to finish his routine. When he did come out, I was in the middle of placing my books on my book case. Upon turning around, I blinked at John.

I realized how big they might be when I gave the clothes to him, but now It's rather comical with how big they are to his body. He is in no way small, but compared to me, he might as well have been a teenager or a young adult straight out of Uni.

Lestrade laughed aloud and John rolled his eyes, lifting his arms to hopefully indicate help but only making it worse with how the cuffs of the suit hung around his hands like mittens.

"Here mate, let me help you with that," Lestrade spoke, still holding back laughter at the sight. I gave a light smile as well before letting it vanish.

"Ah, Lestrade, while you are helping John, can you inform me of the case?"

He was rolling up John's cuffs on his trousers, my trousers, when he responded, "Sure. She's a girl, probably 23. From what I saw around her flat, her name is Alice Ferguson. Her cause of death is officially being hanged."

"Officially?" John questioned as he lifted his other foot for the cuffs to be adjusted.

"Her body shows marks of abuse or torture. Her wrists and ankles have dark bruises from being tied to a chair I would guess. She was probably dying then from internal bleeding, according to Anderson anyways, before they decided enough was enough and hanged the poor girl."

"Any family?" I questioned, looking out my window.

"No. She has no family. Father and mother passed away when she left for Uni. She had a sister, but she died of pneumonia."

"Pneumonia shouldn't be enough to kill a young girl. Sicken her yes, but with enough medication and the correct dosage of rest, she should have been better. Unless-"

"-she had a weak immune system," I concluded, "Good John. Maybe you are proving useful! Anything else? Friends? Pets? Annoying neighbors even?"

"She had two friends."

"Had?" I turned around to look at Lestrade.

He was now working on the cuffs of the top, rolling the ends up so John's fingers could be visible, "Yeah. They were found dead as well in the victims bedroom. They were tortured as well before being shot in the head."

I noticed John wincing at the cruel death and sighed, "Okay. So then why am I needed per say. It sounds like another boring triple homicide case."

"Well, the main victim, Alice, left a note."

"Yes?"

"It was a hidden note for if she had died. Only for those who could deduct it, like you."

A smile grew on my face as I looked away and started pacing. By this time, John was completed in adjusting his suit and was placing his old loafers back on. Lestrade said his good byes and left, reminding me to be at the scene soon as possible.

After a few moments, I jumped in the air with glee, "Brilliant. A case, something new. Ah, this must be Christmas."

John rolled his eyes, "You would be excited about this."

"Well yes John. Do you expect anything else from me? Come now, I am the only Consulting Detective in the world, but I have to have my few moments of excitement. You may think it morbid and rather disgraceful that I can be so happy at this poor girls murder, but if you hadn't heard. She knew it was going to happen. She knew it was going to occur, her murder. She wrote a note, and not just an ordinary note, no, it had to be a special one or Lestrade wouldn't have come to me. What is she trying to tell?" John stared at my blankly and I stopped and eyed him with sincerity, "Oh I wonder what it is like in your brain. It must be so quaint and so dull. Come on John! The game is on and we must win it!"

With that I dashed down the stairs with a little hint of a bounce to my step that will no doubt go unnoticed by John.

I ran out the door and hailed a cab, holding the door open for John to go in before receding into the vehicle myself.

**?-Mystery POV-?**

I smirked as I eyed Sherlock leave his flat, glee in my eyes for an instant before dwindling down to a small fire.

He has a partner now. That was something I didn't expect, not that I am complaining! This will only make the game all the more interesting to watch and enjoy. If other lives are at stake, including a possible best friend if this progresses as splendidly as it had, then the game can intensify to a new level. A brand new, exciting level filled with angst, depression, and lastly, defeat. Fun stuff, definitely not boring stuff.

It was only a matter of time before Sherlock caught on to who was in the reigns of this plot, but by then it will be far too late to fully reprimand it. At that point, he will have to succumb to my calls like a pet dog, trained and trembling. Ah, I can't wait for that day to come. Of course my game will be over and the one opponent i found increasingly entertaining will be depleted of anything but his unsure mind, but I have to enjoy it while it lasts. Before I go after the bigger fish in the pond so to speak.

I giggled lightly, trailing a warm path from my fingertips onto the brick wall as I retreated back to the black vehicle awaiting me.

Sherlock Holmes. You have yet to realize that my game has only just begun.

And you, my dear, will definitely not win it.

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><p><em>Ah, do I love mystery POV's . I love just writing depressing things to be honest, sad really, but they are the ones I relate to so it's just easier. Nonetheless, I can't wait to finish the next chapter for you lovelies.<em>

_Aw poor John. He lost his guitar. Now how will he convey his beautiful voice (If you want to imagine his voice, I don't know think of Mumford and Sons or Ed Sheeran or something. I haven't decided much. _

_Hm... My sister got mad at me on the reference to season 2 episode 3 with the roof thing. I might have more references to that incident in here since it's been nagging at the back of my mind like a little Sherlock of my own deducting as to why I am putting it off. It's simple, I want to build plot and then tear it to shreds with feels! :D Brilliant really._

_Now, I will take my leave. I don't know when the next chapter will be up. Sophmore year is being a pain with Pre-Cal and Chemistry and all that nonsense. Thank God I can actually use my chemistry knowledge with Sherlock now. *sigh* Welp, that's it! I'll try to bring another chapter in at least a day or three._

_Ciao~ Review or critique._


	4. Chapter 4

_What is this? Could this be an update? I would say it is! 7000+ words in fact~ Told you I could do it._

_Now, with that absurd intro out of the way, I would like to apologize for the lateness of this chapter haha~ I normally would have updated this perhaps three days at most after the last, but I had school piling on my shoulders as well as my Valentine's Day one shot for you guys._

_Ugh... Valentine's Day... I hate that holiday. It's almost like Single Awareness Day haha~ I've had too many bad memories on that day. _

_But, since I accidentally started writing the next chapter before finishing this one, it should be up by Valentine's Day at latest as well. Two gifts in one day. It's going to be like Christmas, except I get nothing ;)_

_Enjoy the chapter! I shall try to update quicker this time~_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. _

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><p><strong>John<strong>  
>It didn't take me long to realize when we were near the crime scene as blue and red lights were reflecting off building windows and sirens could be heard blaring down the streets. Yellow "CAUTION" tape was strewn around the perimeter like a gate with police officers guarding it from curious eyes. Not many people were here yet, thank God, crowds are not necessarily my favorite aspect with scenes like this. The surroundings were fairly discreet, but it was obvious that the scenery wasn't the main attraction of this attention. It was the flat in which a young girl now rested with an unnatural death as her final moments.<p>

I tried to think what it might have been like in her shoes. Lonely, not knowing whether she would live or not. Unsure of any possibilities. Looking for escape but only finding the murderer's glinting eyes. She would be unable to move her hands and legs, wrapped up in rope or some sort of string. Captive, tied up, a dog on chains. And worst of all, nobody to hear her call for help.

I shuddered. That would be awful for anybody, myself included.

"John." I turned to Sherlock who was eyeing me with curiosity and slight _slight_ concern before flashing back to its defensive coating. It was faint and quick, but it was there.

"Yes?"

"What are you thinking about?"

I rolled my eyes at the man and scoffed with a smile, "I'm sure you know it already! Why don't you tell me?" To be honest, I was actually attracted to the deductions. They were amazing, brilliant even. Absolutely extraordinary. Every little explanation was like listening to a story, and I suppose in a way it was. With the way his mind works, he can probably name off the life story of anybody I pointed to. A new tale each time his mouth opened. It made me look like a kid awaiting to open his gifts. I shouldn't be looking forward to his blunt accusations of actual fact, but they were more interesting than my dull life could ever bring. Of course, I wouldn't admit this to him yet. I have too much pride to say such a thing to him. He would let it go to his head.

"Well, since you asked," He started, observing my figure in his analyzing eyes, "Your hands are tapping quite timidly on your thigh meaning that you are nervous. It's erratic and not to a specific beat, so no you can't say that you were thinking of a song since you obviously weren't. I can see that you are biting your bottom lip every so often, that being uncertainty. You are unsure how these people will take to you, taking in mind of your background and how you appeared when I first found you. You are afraid of criticism, but will take it gratefully nonetheless. The way your eyes are distant further infers that you are more than likely over-thinking little tedious things that probably don't matter at this particular moment. Now, your brows are furrowed, frustration? Ah, perhaps you are sentimental to this and are angry at whomever killed the girl. You are human after all, quite the open book might I add."

"How can you not hold any sentiment, Sherlock?"

He was quiet for a moment, thinking, "Does caring and mourning over a lifeless body actually bring the person back to life? Do they return once the suspected murderer is behind bars? Will his punishment make her heart start up once more out of no where? Tell me John, what good is mourning over _someone you don't even know_ when you certainly have concluded that it won't bring them back. Dousing your mood only makes you miss the important things. The important things that actually matter to solve this case."

"Yes, but..."

"But?"

"She had no family, her friends are dead, and I would suspect that nobody really knows her besides those who see or work with her. Nobody is mourning her death. Nobody will come to her funeral, or even pay for one for that matter. She will die without a single tear shed on her short-lived life. Doesn't that bother you? At all?"

Sherlock sighed, his mask becoming slightly darker, "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, John."

It was such a morbid reply that I remained speechless while eyeing the detective with a mixture of surprise and a sullen understanding. He said it like he was told the same thing, like he cared for somebody and it never helped him. It was an emotionless response that gave off indicators, but none that I could really connect. It was then that I realized that Sherlock doesn't hold much sympathy for the deceased and even less for the living. He may hold a tinge of discomfort or pity, but that was as far as it got with him. Sentiment was not in his agenda or in his make-up. He relied on masks and sarcastic, satirical replies.

With that, our conversation ceased. He stared out the window with increasing boredom and I stared out mine with slight concern. His methods of dealing with the newly deceased were different than most people. He was different than most people, original and the complete opposite of the men and women I grew up with. Just the way he brushed the girls death off like nothing happened is what got to me. I have been around people who have always cared for people, even those who have no relations to them, but now that I am back it seems that it's different. Nobody cares as much anymore, at least not this stoic, brooding man.

Then again, he didn't seem the man to show emotion. Quite the opposite actually. Even though I haven't been with him for even a day, I could tell he rarely held any ties with anybody. He was distant and resisted making any sort of contact with anybody or showing any weakness. He was like a soldier, like I was, in that sense, always on defense for the enemy. He was constantly prepared to place up his barriers and steel anything in his eyes that may reveal him. The thought reminded me vaguely of a song I wrote when I got back, one on my life as a soldier and as a doctor... Perhaps one day I'll sing in to him, if I stay that is. It would fit him quite well.

As I shifted my gaze over to the stilled figure, I noticed just how thin he way. He was a lanky man, probably rarely eats at all, but he doesn't seem to be having any symptoms of being malnourished or even fatigue. I sighed and looked away, mentally slapping my wrist for already self-diagnosing the man. I tried hard not to do it to people, glancing in their direction to see how healthy they were and if they were sick or not. I didn't want to do it anymore, but it's hard when you want to be a doctor.

Yet the memory of the time I did that in Afghanistan, the mission that got me sent home, was the day that I promised myself to never do it again. Some talents you should keep to yourself.

But obviously Sherlock didn't think the same. He loved to flaunt his brilliant assertions with confidence and nonchalance. He had an interesting life, one full of mysteries and constant surprises. I, however, have nothing of the sort. I didn't even know what Sherlock found so interesting in a "boring" man as I. Yes, I play guitar, and yes I suppose it is odd that I don't have some sort of funds to compensate to my service, but that's a whole another reason altogether. It isn't even enough motive to stop and offer me brunch as he did.

Sighing, I observe my fidgeting fingers, "I don't think I will ever understand Sherlock. He's just... so unique. I can't even find the words to describe his personality and how he works," I chuckled, "I always seem to find the weird ones though..."

The weird ones, the _special_ ones, the odd balls; they always found their way to me. I'm not saying I don't like it, since most are still my friends to this day, but it definitely stuck out when you were a lanky teen with a pink-haired girl and rainbow socks rather than the casual, pastel attire. Of course, it was a strange guy who introduced me to music in the first place. Mike Stamford. I heard he still lived here, but I knew visiting him right now was out of the question. Sherlock would never let me leave and I don't think I want to anyways. I don't hold the same thrill as the excited detective next to me, but I still held a small amount of mild interest for the case.

I felt my phone vibrate and pulled it out, noticing immediately that I got a text. It was a number that wasn't in my contacts, then again, I don't exactly have any contacts at the moment. Perhaps it was Clara, or Harriet and they got a new phone. It wouldn't be the first time they tried to contact me so they could help me out. Nevertheless, I denied every offer. I can make it out on my own. I did it in the war zone so I can sure as hell do it here as well.

I clicked the button to view the message and scrunched my eyebrows as well.

**-Unknown Number-**

**You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson... You miss it.**

**Who is this - JW**

My teeth clenched as I awaited the text back, that is, if I got one back. I don't even know the number but somebody does if he was able to contact me! Who was this person? He acknowledges my name and obviously knows about my services with the military. Nobody should know about it unless the person was...

I glanced at Sherlock with suspicion before noticing a name on my phone. My finger slipped apparently causing my to go to my contacts by accident. Sighing, I was about to exit out when I saw a certain title in one of the contact slots.

_The Only Consulting Detective_

Great. So that is what he was doing when he took me phone. He placed his bloody number in the bloke.

I didn't really bother getting mad at him. Knowing him, he thought it perfectly normal, although it's obvious to most "dull" people that it isn't. Well, I doubt yelling and scolding him will actually do any good considering he practically has a snide reply to almost everything.

"John?"

I turned to him, "Yes?"

"We are here." Oh. I hadn't realized that we stopped and blinked the thoughts out of my eyes. I can think of these later, at a calmer time when I will hopefully have my guitar back. That's what I did nowadays. It was my specific sort of therapy that didn't require me keeping a diary for every little thing that I did. The therapist wanted me to do that, to note everything that happened in my life, but until a few hours ago, I would have told her nothing ever happens to me. It was true then, but not so much now. Now I had a deducting detective whom seemed to love showing off anything he could of his talents. It was almost like a child trying to get the attention of his mother, just not as cute, more so annoying. I couldn't deny that it was absolutely marvelous though.

Once the cabbie stopped, Sherlock was once again running out and striding towards the neon yellow tape. It looked like he wanted to skip and I laughed at that. I could see him doing that, skipping to a crime scene. It would be profound and utterly ridiculous and embarrassing, but it was still entirely possible for him.

"God, who am I dealing with?" I mumbled as I followed the detective warily.

I had to admit though that even I had a small smile on my face despite myself.

**Sherlock**  
>"Oh, so the freak has arrived. Why are you here?" Donovan sneered at me. She was trying to scare me away with her weak insults again, never really concluding that they don't affect me. I have grown up with such torment Sally so your petty words won't touch my already cold heart. Nonetheless, I didn't mind her. She was just another simpleton with an even simpler mind.<p>

"I'm here to solve the case that your team can't seem to create a solution for on your own," I replied with a hint of ice in my voice, giving a little smile to the irritated woman.

She glared at me, obviously done with my tactics at this point. Pity, that didn't take long. She had a shorter fuse today it seems. That's fine. That's why I have John as my acquaintance. He was a great deal more bearable than Anderson and seems to match my liking to crime scenes, albeit he does show more emotion. It's one of the few flaws I have come to notice in him by this point. He is open, his eyes the doors to practically anything to my taking. Well, almost anything. His orbs still hold a little bit of secrecy when mentioning his soldier days, or I suppose his more darkened days. Of course the more he hides it, the more I'm going to have to guess and deduct until I reach its poor, shriveled core. A challenge was always treated seriously and figuring out John's past was quite the serious matter. Well, that is, if he lasts long enough.

Speaking of the doctor, I heard Donovan open her mouth, venom ready to poison anybody unfortunate of speaking to her.

"And who is this?" She turned to John who was shuffling slightly, unsure of whether to go under the tape or remain at his formal pose. He didn't know what to say and it obviously wasn't a sudden love at first sight since, for one, the concept is irrational and doesn't exist, and second, his pupils never dilated upon seeing her. Thus, he probably feared her for now. That makes perfect sense since she wasn't exactly giving the best first impression like I had when I met him. It didn't help that Donovan was being a little bit more... haughty than usual.

I eyed her up and down without her noticing. Hm.. ah, trouble in paradise it seemed. Her hands looked reddened, fingers twitching ever so slightly, she slapped someone, probably Anderson judging from how I saw him rub his cheek every so often on the same space her hand would have hit. So he did something wrong, of course he did. He was Anderson. Nonetheless, it was he who did the wrong doing otherwise it might have been Donovan with perhaps some bruises the size of the pads on ones fingers. She is completely fine physically, well, almost. Eyes were slightly flushed, she cried before she came to the scene. Arguments and not the easy, ludicrous ones. They were inflictive, something close to home. Hands shaking and the fact that her neck constricted every so often from glancing at Anderson, it might have been bad enough to cause a break up between the two. How awful. They both fit together so well in terms of dull, boring minds and even worse personalities. What a shame. Well, I suppose it is nice he cut it off before his wife found out. That would have been tedious and quite annoying.

"This is Dr. Watson. He's my..."

"Colleague," John finished, seemingly claiming the courage he lacked before. He held out his hand as a kind gesture to the woman who looked like she wanted to just ignore him. John looked confused for a second before retrieving his hand and letting it fall to his side. Any emotion he held after that was carefully hidden from my watching eyes, but I could tell he was a little irritated at the woman. His hands were in fists, clenching before being undone once more. His mouth was in a thin line, emphasizing how much he would rather just wait back at the flat than deal with her. Hm... perhaps we do have something in common, our similar dislike in the woman close to us.

But right now I really don't have time to worry about how quaint Donovan was being. A murder is upstairs, a triple homicide at that, and my mind was racing to digest the evidence.

Raising the tape for John, I awaited him to go under. He looked a little unsure as he looked at me and Donovan.

"Perhaps I should just stay behind-" he started, moving a step backward.

I rolled my eyes, "Come now John. I don't have all day to wait for your confidence to spur you into coming under this stingy, useless tape. A young girl is murdered and I'm the only one in this lot that can say why."

"Then why should I come?" He wasn't glaring at me, but his eyebrow twitched slightly so it was agitation.

I smirked, "Because I enjoy the second opinion."

He scoffed as he watched me speak, "Ha. Sure you do."

"I do!" I insisted, once again motioning him under the tape. With one lasting look, he finally sighed and went under the tape. Letting it drop, I walked away from the distasteful annoyance and the tape just as she called, "The freak is here!"

That, of course, was the cue for Anderson to arrive. I was hoping that he might have tripped down the stairs and left to check a sprained ankle of sorts, but I suppose not all hopes can be answered.

He was wearing those fruitless green scrubs that made his face all the more prominent. I wouldn't have minded him if he wasn't so dull, boring, and utterly impossible to deal with when it comes to murders. Every little statement he would give, albeit absurd, would be completely wrong and useless in the case. The way his mind revolves around little useless things like crime scene tampering and little facts here and there was directly pointed to make me want to shut him out of the room, in which, I would normally do. Nonetheless, he was briskly walking to me now with the intentions of idiocy on his features. Joy.

"Why are you here?" he spoke deliberately. I could already feel the IQ of the yard decreasing by 1 percent.

"Really Anderson? Is that all your little mind can conjure when I walk up? Perhaps you and Donovan are a better couple than I thought in terms of lacking any imaginative responses."

He paled slight, "Sally and I are not-"

"Yes you are. Now, I'm going to be entering the crime scene now. I hope your terrible diagnostic team didn't mess with the body."

I heard him grumble as I walked up the steps into a flat, obviously roped off from anybody who wanted a closer look. Of course, that never includes me.

"Sherlock!" I turned to see Lestrade walking up, green scrubs on as well.

I nodded in acknowledgment.

"Lestrade," I heard John greet from behind me as he shook the DI's hand firmly, "Nice seeing you again."

"And you Dr. Watson," he turned to me once more, "Now, you have roughly 8 minutes before you two have to be gone. I am-"

"-Breaking so many procedures with me being here. Yes, I know Lestrade. You don't need to chide me of this every time."

He chuckled, "You're right, I don't. Doesn't stop me from doing so anyways."

I was going to walk into the scene when he reached an arm out and stopped me. Annoyance on my face I turned to him.

"I don't mind if you are here, we need you, but why is Dr. Watson here? No offense, mate."

"None taken, "John replied and I rolled my eyes, "He's here to help diagnose the body."

"Isn't that what Anderson is for?"

I glared at him, "I can't work with him. His thinking interrupts my deductions. As for his team, they are merely a bunch of confused adults just holding diagnosing tools. They don't work well with me and I them."

"But, John?"

"He is more tolerant of me. He's still standing here, yes?"

Lestrade laughed and shook his head, "Right. Before you go in though doctor, I need you to put on this scrubs so you don't contaminate anything, surely you understand."

John nodded, "Yes, but what of Sherlock."

I could feel a faint glare on my back as I crossed into the room to observe the scene, "I could never get him into one. He says they restrict his mind palace or whatever that place is."

"Oh," John say as he followed my example.

I observed the room as John caught up with me, measuring every little indention in its crevices. The crime scene was surprisingly clean despite what I have heard from Lestrade, but there were still other rooms in this flat. A bathroom and a bedroom. Nonetheless, I can check those after I observe the main attraction, that being Ms. Alice Ferguson.

I found her on the ground and gently crouched next to the corpse. John followed suit and got on his knees on the other side of her, watching me.

Her eyes were open, so it was somebody who didn't care for her. They didn't know her and could care less as to her well being. Her face held forming bruises on her left cheek along with a few grazes. She was slapped on the cheek quite hard so resistance was her attribute through all of this. She refused to give information to the murderers of choice, probably because they were the people she had information about and she knew they would kill her anyways. Stupid girl, but bravery is a form of idiocy I suppose.

Other than a cracked lip and bed head, her face was otherwise clear. Wait, no it wasn't. Traces of a white substance were sprinkled around her lips, but I couldn't identify without further testing it back at the lab. I used a little petri dish I had on me and gently nudged it under some of the grains, making sure enough was in it for testing later. After doing so, I shoved it in my inner pocket and continued the observation. Her body was slightly different. Both wrists and ankles were darkly bruised with broken skin where she tried to get free. A faint white powder was on her wrists and chest area as well, being mostly concentrated on her chin and lips. Her ankles were clean of the grains, only marked from the bonds in which she was kept. Judging by the patterned indentions, it was the same rope now around her neck. The chair she stood on was also the seat she was attached to, judging by the small flecks of white around the arms of the furniture piece.

Any other injuries were obvious to even Anderson as to where they appeared from. He could not, however, see the other aspects. She had no boyfriend... no, girlfriend. Although this is more of a guess, as much as it annoyed me, she more than likely preferred the same sex as herself judging by her personality and tastes. She's alone, or likes to be, due to her condition probably. Albinism. She has brown eyes, but they are starting to affect her eyes and bringing out the iridescent red common in the skin condition. The tan she holds is false as well as her hair, falsely died a brown like her eyes. She's obviously one to hate going out, more reserved, but she is observant judging by the notes she has scattered around over little meticulous things of uselessness.

Ah, this isn't even her flat. This was one of her friends. Close to the chair was an overnight bag with a tag on it, her name visible with neat scrawl. It looked doused by rain, though no rain was even close to London at this time so it was out of town. She doesn't have a lot of money according to her cheap, hand-me-down clothing and call-only phone. She drove here from where she actually lived, that being Brighton, England. Her tag also showed this and her number and email.

"Well?" I looked up when I heard Lestrade call for my attention. I would have ignored him but I already had gathered all I could.

"She was murdered, as you have stated, but the hanging came last. She was strapped to the chair for questioning on not what she knew, rather what she saw and noticed. The murderer didn't know her and killed her in cold blood after he discovered that he couldn't get anything out of her."

"He? The murderer was a male?"

I rolled my eyes, "Do keep up. Yes it was a male. Even by her slim standards, a female would have no way to actually preform all of the abilities done here. Now, they tried to poison her, but it didn't work, mixed up the contraption in some way. She was tortured before being killed the way she did."

"That much is obvious," Anderson spoke and I turned to glare at him. Motioning at John, he looked at me and understood immediately what to do. Walking over to the front door, he shut it in Anderson's face and I almost smiled at the look he got. Satisfactory.

"This isn't her flat. It is somebody she knows, the girl friend of hers more than likely. She only came here for a visit, planning to leave tomorrow. Of course, that didn't go as planned. She was murdered plain and simple. Nothing more than an obvious triple homicide. What did you call me here for Lestrade?"

"This." With that, he turned on a lamp beside me, purposely directed at the wall. As he flipped the switch, a bright purple glow bounced off towards the white-washed wall, exposing everything. It was a black-light.

But that wasn't what intrigued me, no, it was what was on the wall. Words, verses of a poem I know quite well. It wasn't messy scrawl, but it wasn't neat. She tried to make it readable, but she didn't have the time to make it in a type-written dexterity.

Standing, John and I enclosed on the words, avoiding direct blockage of the light passing through.

"What-?" John started, obviously miffed.

"Shush John," I mumbled absently, mentally copying and pasting the text in a room of my mind palace for further deductions.

_Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling;_

_By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore;_

_'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, 'I said, 'are sure no craven;_

_Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore;_

_Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'_

_Quote the raven, 'Nevermore'._

At the bottom was a cursive-written signature, "_Alice Ferguson._"

Scrunching my brows, I turned to look at Lestrade, "How did your team come up with this? I respect you with slightly more intelligence than the average human, but I can't say the same for the rest of them."

He chuckled, "Actually, Anderson found it," I raised my brow, "Okay, actually he kind of accidentally flipped on the switch when he tripped over the chair..."

John chuckled next to me and I smiled slightly. Of course.

"John, did you notice the raven statue when you walked in?" I spoke, looking over at the grinning man.

He tilted his head before nodding, "Yeah, it was over by the Chinese vases on the shelf next to the front door. Why?"

I stood, patting down my coat, "Oh nothing, an experiment actually. Could you go stand by the statue?"

John did as asked and raised an eyebrow at me, motioning as to what I could possibly be thinking. Oh John, I envy your little spacious mind. It must be wonderful not being me.

"Okay, now, which way is the raven directed from your point of view, you being north in this instance."

He eyed the angle and spoke decisively, "It is directed exactly North East from where I stand. Almost an exact 45 degrees I'd say."

Nodding, I eyed the vision of the Raven to a book case. It was alphabetically arranged with various books that I could really care less of at the moment. The point of view was on the second shelf of the case and on the evergreen book in the middle. I inched towards to book and pulled it out, noticing immediately how light it was despite its deceiving thickness. It should have weighed more than it was. Odd... and intriguing.

I opened the book and smiled. Clever girl.

The book was hollowed out so that the middle was cleared and the opposite cover of the book was glued to the edges of the pages. It was a great place for hiding materials and that was exactly what it was doing.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John spoke as he neared me. Lestrade also strode over, interested in my find.

Reaching into the book, I fished out the folded pieces of paper, all addressed to "Whomever it may concern."

"Letters? Why would there be letters in a blasted book?" Lestrade spoke, surprised by my find.

"It's obvious Lestrade is it not? Come now, the poem! It was written in lemon juice, one of the many substances that glow under a UV light of sorts. It is still quite vibrant under the light, meaning it has been written recently, but that is besides the point. Her friend, or rather she since she bought the raven due to the lack of dust compared to the other objects, knew she was going to die and used the poem as a hint that only those well-versed and impeccably perceptive can understand, or myself. The raven at the end is the raven she placed where John was standing. The perspective at which it was placed made it look as if it was looking exactly at this book titled 'Nevermore' like the raven states in the famous poem. She was clever and smart despite the result."

John was wide-eyed in front of me, "That... was amazing."

I rolled my eyes, "You don't need to say it every time. Such thoughts can be kept to yourself."

He reddened slightly, embarrassed, before rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, "Sorry. I'll shut up."

I blinked, a little taken aback as to how calmly he took that. Normally people would be swearing me out by this point, but John accepted it quickly, "No. It's... alright."

Lestrade cleared his throat and I shook my head, pulling out the letters, "They were all written by her. The hand writing is the exact same as the one written in the poem and the tag on her case. They are dated variously and titled. Notes it looks like. The first seems to be a sort of introduction to the rest of the contents. She was being more sketchy and messier in the later letters, probably worried for her safety at this point."

"Well? What do they say," Lestrade spoke.

"I thought I only had 8 minutes," I reminded with a smirk.

He grunted and thought it over, "I'll let you read the letters then you can observe the other two body's and be out of here as soon as possible. Anderson and Donovan won't be happy, but they never are when it comes to you."

"The other body's are so boring though, far less interesting than this girl. They were used as a motive for information that failed despite her relations to them, so a fight between the three broke out previous to the murder to lessen the affect on her. They were just there to spite her. Send them to Molly's if you wish and I can do further finalization there. Now, for the letters."

The dates were from the recent Christmas to just three days ago.

The first letter was the lengthy one, a descriptive introduction as stated before_:_

_Hello to whomever is viewing this. If you are, by chance, seeing this around my dead body, it must mean I have been murdered. I have expected this you see, but nonetheless, don't mourn for me. I have no family and even fewer friends who care for me, thus making this slight difficult, no? Despite the fact that I may be lifeless now, find my murderer. He has come for me due to a secret I accidentally viewed without authorization. The same secret I have enclosed in these assorted letters. I hope the clues I leave you will ensure a enclosed case, though the world has changed drastically and for all I know, it may run cold like many others. Now, I hope this is in the right hands when I say this. Please, stop the man, and the people alongside him, whom have murdered me so. At that point, I will be fully at peace and will thank you greatly. Sincerely, Alice._

The next were minor notes:

_1. Jim Moriarty - Friend or foe? Obviously a boss of some sort, probably bad. Keep distance and keep an eye on the group of his. Curious how this might end._

_2. Location - I believe I know where he is now. From what I have heard, he plans to pay this man to kill people. Of course, it seems the man was tricked, but nonetheless, it isn't my business. Though, it seems the tricked man was doing it for good intentions considering he was dying and wanted money to help his kids along. A good man doing horrible deeds. I wonder if I should report this? Probably not. Don't want to risk getting caught, though I have a sinking feeling he knows I'm already here and spying on him. God, do I hope he doesn't know. I fear the worst._

_3. A letter - I've recently received a letter from a man with the initials J.M.. This is probably Jim Moriarty. He says the raven should have refrained speaking nevermore when it had the chance to do so. He does have a way with words, but I know underneath that my death is soon. I know there is no escape, but I might as well gather as much information as possible before I die. I want to try to help the others under his thumb and perhaps somewhere out there, there is somebody who can do that for me._

_4. Other people - I keep hearing several names over and over again from J.M.. That's my reference for him since I don't have enough time to write right now. He has recently moved to a new spot, one that took me a few clues of looking. I hope he refrains from killing me, but I can tell he is ruthless, despite his happy nature around his hit man "Sebby". I want to think that's a nickname for Sebastian, but one can't be too sure. I should keep an eye on him since he is more than likely going to be the man that will be my final sights._

_5. A final note - The J.M. has recently sent me another note. It is not a warning, but a guarantee that my death will be tonight. I don't fear it to be honest. I like living, but I have nothing to live for right now. Family is gone, friends soon following their path. Perhaps this is my destiny; to sacrifice myself for the likes of others. Nevertheless, I will write more than usual since by tomorrow, my body will probably be found. Jim Moriarty is a man to be careful around. He deducts as keenly as an owl at night trying to spot a mouse, but he always finds it. He will find your weakness and won't hesitate to take it away from you. I was just lucky not to have one when he caught me. When you do finally see him, beware. He has many guises and can trick you into thinking he's innocent. He isn't. Far from it in fact. I've caught him killing a few men and he seems to enjoy it. He's truly a psychopath. I know I will not be his final victim, probably just a dot in his long list of somebodies and nobodies, but you, whomever finds this, can surely stop him. He has no weakness though. You must kill him to end him. No talking to him to get through to his shriveled heart. He's ruthless and will abide to nothing to see you burn. I know this in fact._

_6. A memento - A final thought that has appeared to me just now. This will be my official last note considering the man will be here in half an hour as promised. They prefer being punctual despite the blood-driven murderers they are. Nonetheless, he always chanted one name over and over. It was like an endless cycle, never ending. He appears to want to kill this man, or at least play with his head a little. I fear he knows too much of the man and that the man knows nothing of him. I do remember the name though. Maybe you can save and protect the man from the same fate as myself. The name will be etched into my memory till my final death. It's odd, but the name he recited was "Sherlock Holmes". Goodbye reader and I hope you receive this and not the opposition._

I dropped the letters back into the book, "Aside from the grammatical errors in these, she was clearly well-educated in an uprising of sorts it appears."

John scoffed, "Of course. A girl leaves notes to help us solve her murder and all you can think of is grammatical errors? How despicable but I'm not even going to scold you. I suppose from that you can tell what went through her head?"

"Of course," I spoke, "She was in a rush for all of these obviously. Anybody with half a brain, or none, can tell that much. She wasn't afraid of her death since she didn't really have a life, which was nice since reading a sob story would have been rather unbearable to say the least. Now, the clues she did leave us are helpful. It seems this Jim Moriarty character knows more of myself than I know of him as the girl stated. Perhaps Mycroft knows something. He does have his uses."

I placed the book in the crook of my arm and made my way to the exit, a smile on my lips for the interesting case.

"H-Hey! That is evidence you know," Lestrade stammered though it was obvious that he wasn't going to try to take the thing away from my grasp.

"I will return it to your team's incapable hands soon enough, after I have discovered the murderer. Until then, I will take leave with this."

Lestrade shook his head as I walked down the stairs and out of the flat. Ignoring the petty remarks of Anderson and Donovan, I hail a cab.

"So what now?"

I turned to John as I heard a cab stop in front of me. Opening the door for him, I awaited John to step in before shutting it and returning to my side and stepping in, "Whatever could you mean?"

"You didn't ask for my opinion at all during the entire time we were in that flat, but you obviously have an intention of going somewhere. So what am I here for actually?"

I pursed my lips, "I didn't ask for your opinion there since I didn't want Anderson to give some stupid remark to infect your wording, but I would love to hear your deduction at this moment I suppose."

John rolled his eyes and smiled a little despite himself, "Her death was not hanging as you said. It wasn't even anything in relation to it. Her death was actually caused by potent blunt force trauma in the back of her head," I blinked, going through my index to see if I remembered such. I didn't of course and stared at John with annoyed confusion.

"From my point of view, Sherlock, the blood was pooling. It was utterly clean from your side so that is why you didn't see it. Mistakes are made and gone unnoticed by some so shut it and let me finish. You were curious of my opinion correct? Oh, but yes. Blunt force trauma killed her along with some traumatic internal bleeding. The hanging was only an after-effect to make it look like she killed herself I think," he breathed and looked at me with curiosity, "So how did I do?"

I thought it over, "Quite well, John, quite well. You missed some of the major pointers, but you did well in discovering what you were supposed to see."

I saw John shake his head and look out the window, obviously a little done with talking to me, "So where are we going now? This isn't the route back to Baker Street."

"No it isn't. We are going to a... colleague of mine. She is one of the few people who willingly gives me body parts for my experiments," I commented brightly.

"Oh, that's nice- wait what? You preform experiments with dead body parts and of dead human beings at that?!" John sputtered, glaring at me with accusations of my sanity again. I sighed. It may take him a little longer than expected to get used to my antics.

"Yes John, do keep up. If we are going to be flat mates, we should no the worst of each other, correct?"

* * *

><p><em>And that's all it wrote! I actually had too much fun writing the murder. I was stuck between mixing lemon juice and water or if I should try highlighter and water. Both work. I actually got up at this time (midnight) grabbed lemon juice and a highlighter and water and did the concoctions to see which worked best with my black light. The highlighter was good, but it ran to readily so I decided the lemon juice. My sister eyed me like I was crazy for writing the poem on my wall. It's still there haha~<em>

_Oh, but yes, I hope you enjoyed it. So many errors are in this since I was trying to get it out today. Look forward for Valentine's day guys for two little chapters. I already have planned the next chapter to be similar to a hurt/comfort one *sigh* so it will be of utter sadness, but the other one should lift your spirits some. _

_Critique and review~_

_Ciao~_


	5. Chapter 5

_Let me start this off by saying how I'm sorry about the lateness of this. I aimed to have two chapters for this fanfic done by yesterday and, obviously, that was not achieved. Now, I will mention that the sixth chapter is actually near done. I just have to reread it once more to make sure I am okay with it. _

_I also want to say thank you to all of you who followed/favorited/reviewed this fanfiction! That itself drives me to write faster! It also makes my day and causes me to have ideas run through my head like a mad man...er, woman. _

_This will only have one person's POV due to the fact that it seemed like I should dedicate one little chapter to him. It also has a back story which explains a little of what he went through out of the MANY things he did. (I also was afraid to do another Sherlock POV at the moment since I need to read a little on him to make sure I get it right as the story goes on. No OOC here if I can help it!)_

_Without further ado, I will leave you be. Enjoy the story! :) This is more of a filler chapter than anything so don't expect too much plot._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I do, however, own Arthur that makes an appearance later on. I also do not own the song!_

* * *

><p><strong>John<strong>

I tried to think of the colleague Sherlock could have been talking about as we arrived at the mortuary. Sherlock described her with distinct remarks, but nothing to gather a picture. He probably didn't pay her any attention knowing how he gets with cases from what I could gather.

He treated each case as if it was his obsession. Anything else was practically nothing to him besides the case at hand. If somebody were to come to him for help, they would be pleased to know that he actually assesses the entire situation before his own health. This by itself annoyed me as a doctor, and maybe a friend though that one is a possibility. I tried to get him to nurture the thought of eating, even some chips at a quick-food joint, but he wouldn't budge, ignoring my prodding with the stubbornness of a mule. He only responded with the thought being absurd to the case and therefore irrelevant. Of course after a few more minutes of attempting the same motive, I gave up with a sigh.

So, this was consultant detective Sherlock. Not sure what to think of it to be honest. Regular Sherlock was enough to deal with with his quick reflexes and his indecisive, brilliant mind, but this was different. His deductions, albeit utterly fascinating to hear, were more subjective and much more accusatory to the directed person. He would rush at the littlest of leads despite how late it could be or if anybody who was accompanying him at the time was following him. A stake-out was nothing for him. Chasing a criminal through the alleys? Not at all weird in the slightest. He would probably actually even break into places just to prove his theories right the git.

I swear, he was going to be the death of me, or at least the cause of my being in jail at 3 in the morning if this continues.

I wasn't even his flat mate for even a week and he was already having me tag along with him everywhere. I rarely had enough to time to compose anything with how he wanted me to remember little knick-knacks here and there for later usage. I hope he knows that I don't have some amazing, organized, photographic memory as himself. I was only human after all. Him? I honestly haven't _deducted_ if he even counted as that. Perhaps he was a robot or some fictional creature from those absurd teen-fiction novels nowadays. I wouldn't be surprised.

In more ways then one, he reminded me of this man I was friends...no, that was too fond, accomplices of. If I was correct, he had a name so odd that I just gave him a nickname of my own.

His name was, or my nickname for him was, Arthur. A bloke so stoic and distant that I was counted as lucky to know him like I did.

The last time I saw him, it must have been the night before I met Sherlock. By then it had been 2 weeks that we were roaming together.

_"So," I started as I struggled_ _with_ _the cans I held in the bag, "What_ _now?"_

_Arthur was looking around, his_ _chestnut_ _colored hair assorted and swaying in the harsh, cold winds. His green eyes were flashing to_ _every_ _corner,_ _though_ _I suppose I could understand why. In this part of the city, wanderers_ _weren't_ _uncommon and whenever we did happen upon them,_ _they_ _were hostile. I would be able to fend them off for the most part, but sometimes we lost something or got a broken arm. Of course, I would be able to aid it, if I could, being a doctor and all. Perhaps that's why I was kept, protection._

_Nevertheless, I was not complaining. The first four months were horrible until I met him and even if he was the most antisocial bloke I ever met in my bloody life, he did share any food or items he had. In more ways than one, he was a savior from the cold and_ _loneliness_ _of the streets._

_"We should find shelter," he murmured softly, hands clenching around the stick in his palms. Well, I suppose_ stick _was more of an understatement. It was more like a rusting lead pipe that provided most of the_ _protection_ _and_ _leverage_ _we needed._

_I nodded. Yes,_ _shelter_ _would be wonderful but we_ _don't_ _have money to get a_ _hotel_ _room like we were able to earlier. This time, the spot I chose for my guitar_ _wasn't_ _a good spot and we only earned enough money for food. It was more than the week before altogether, but it still_ _wasn't_ _enough to live comfortably._

_Snow began to pile in little mounds around us, covering the pavement in white. We only have perhaps an hour or two before we would have to_ _resort_ _to_ _body heat. We need to find a building,_ _preferably_ _empty so we_ _don't_ _fight over territory with the others. Ugh, I hated this life, but I had no money. I was broke and my family practically disowned me as there son for what I did. The only true_ family _I had left was Harry, but I_ _didn't_ _want to bother her, to make her sad. Especially since I looked like mother too much so she would only see the sickness and_ _malnourished_ _figure of mine as a prominent reflection of mum's last few days._

_I sighed. I can_ _live_ _without bothering her if I can help it. I was already a troublesome prat to the rest of my family so if I so much as_ spoke _to her,_ _they_ _might_ _just_ _disown her as well and I know Harry. She_ _wouldn't_ _last long before running back to the bottle. I mean, she already has..._

_I was still good though. No matter how horrible the situation was, I would place a facade for the others. I_ _didn't_ _have to do that for Arthur though. I_ _didn't_ _ask him_ _about_ _his past so he_ _didn't_ _ask about mine. It was a small,_ _unsaid_ _mutual agreement between us._

_All of a sudden I saw Arthur lurch forward, falling into the snow. He was retching everything he ate the_ _night_ _before, which_ _wasn't_ _much. A little concerned, I patted his back awkwardly to_ _help_ _him through. After maybe a minute or so, he stopped_ _and spat_ _out what was in his mouth. He was chuckling though it was_ _humorlessly_ _morbid._

_"I thought I'd last longer," he spoke with a annoyed gleam in his eye._

_"What do you-" I stopped when I saw what he vomited. It was food, yes, disgusting and utterly unappealing, but mixed in was blood. Actually, most of the contents was blood. This..._ _This_ _wasn't_ _good._

_"I... are you sick?" I mumbled, confused and slightly scared for the man next to me._

_Arthur shrugged and took off the light sweater he_ _was_ _wearing,_ _throwing_ _it aside. It was covered in the contents he spewed up earlier. Along the side of his mouth, a_ _faint_ _trickle of red was seeping down._

_I went into doctor mode from there on. Turning his body to face me, I reached out and placed my hand against his forehead. It was burning hot and I immediately pulled my hand away and went to his coat. I began ripping the clean parts to put snow in when Arthur came behind me. With an unsteady hand, he placed it on my shoulder, a low rumble coming from his chest as he spoke._

_"John. Stop."_

_I rotated to face him again, "What other symptoms do you have?"_

_He shook his head, "John-"_

_I enforced the words carefully, "What. Other. Symptoms." I was meaning every word. I was a doctor and doctors save lives. That is what they do, no matter the consequences on their part. Right now, Arthur's life was obviously in danger considering the spout of blood he exhaled just minutes ago._

_He sighed, "I already know what it is, John, but I will humor you I suppose. It's always nice to have the assertion from a doctor. Nothing too bad though, to be honest. Cough. Chills. Fever. Sweating at night."_

_I thought it over and came to one of the few diseases that I knew with those symptoms, but I needed more information to deduct further, "How long has the cough lasted?"_

_"Maybe a month."_

_I thought it over and observed his form upon physical examination, "You were coughing up sputum, phlegm from deep inside the lungs, and you have lost weight in the time I have been with you. You must have lost perhaps 2 or 3 stones from the first day I saw you. Loss of appetite. You didn't even want to eat yesterday, but I made you. You've been getting weaker as well considering how I have to carry most of the weight now instead of a half-and-half."_

_I paled when I came to a conclusion, "Do you have any pain in your chest? If so, how long?"_

_Arthur kicked the snow beneath him, a nonchalant look on his face, "John. Face it. I have tuberculosis."_

_"B-But, you looked so well-"_

_"I've had it since I got out of high school, roughly six years now. I didn't catch it quick enough so I knew it was terminal," he scoffed lightly and looked up at me, full acceptance in his eyes, "I knew I was going to die John. I knew it from the day I met you so I figured I'd do some good before I die and help you out."_

_"I've been around you for awhile now. I'm sure 2 weeks is close enough for me to be infected. I'm not sick with it though. So... I have latent tuberculosis... Anything could trigger it..." I spoke sullenly, realizing the danger of this and the effects that will occur soon enough._

_"Why do you think I've been avoiding you John, avoiding people in general? It wasn't because I was a stoic imbecile that hated to go out, no, it was because I didn't want others to get sick. Of course, I knew that wouldn't stop you, so I've been conjuring other ways to help you."_

_I looked up at him,"Other... ways?"_

_He smirked and took out a bag from a hidden pocket in his coat. It was made of leather, though it was dirtied from all the various substances in alleyways and abandoned flats. It must have been the size of a common coin pouch, but it was bulging. _

_"I've been saving money for you, John," Arthur said as though it was the most obvious thing in the world._

_"Why?" I heard myself say though I was far away. My mouth was dry and unable to utter anything else. The whole point of me being on the streets was so that nobody would be bothered and here was Arthur, a man who was_ dying _and he has been saving bloody coins for me to survive instead of trying to help him. _

_"Because you didn't leave me like the others," he stated simply, handing me the pouch, "You never asked for more than you could chew. You never stole from me. You didn't attack defenseless innocent people for being in a overpowering area. You were a good man and even though I was probably the worst choice for you to team up with, you still stuck with me. For that, I'm grateful."_

_"It is what any man would do," I interjected, trying to find reason in this._

_"No. It isn't and you know that," he deadpanned. He started having a coughing fit afterward, swinging his head to the side to cough whatever into the crook of his elbow. I patted his back to help calm the irritation, but even so it took more than five minutes and a lot of swearing on his part. When he finally did turn back to me, more red was painted on his face as well as where his mouth was pointed in his elbow. He held a grimace that shouted how much pain he was in._

_"Arthur-" I began._

_"John," he interrupted, looking me in the eye with a pleading look, "will you do something for me? Just one thing."_

_I hesitated before nodding._

_"You know that guitar you always carry on your back? The one that we have been using the entire time to earn money?" I nodded again and he continued, "I know I'm going to die soon. Maybe tonight while I am sleeping, but will you play something for me? As a friendly farewell, of course."_

_I looked him in the eye, those green eyes. He was only 24 years old, almost 25. He was far too young to die of a disease like this, a disease so treatable had he known sooner._

_"Yes."_

_He sighed and smiled,"Good," he pulled out a syringe from his pocket and tossed it in the air before catching it again, "Right, let's find a place to rest."_

_He was so okay with this. He was accepting that his final breaths were coming to an end yet he still held his head high because he wasn't going to let that get to him. I wished I was like that. I wish I could just let things pass me by in a blink of an eye, but I couldn't. I hold grudges, dark shadows that follow my every step._

_"What is that anyways?" I asked him, pointing at the syringe._

_"__Seconal. I've read from a few books that taking enough of this with water at room temperature could cause an overdose."_

_"Why would you want to overdose?! Why would you want to die so quickly?" I sputtered, surprised by his logic._

_"Why? Really, John? Think it over. I am_ dying _of a painful disease. My final moments with this disease will be the most excruciating pain in my life. Now, I would go through that, but I'm a coward, and a weak one at that. I can't do it. Seconal, a insomnia aid, is a alternative. You know this. I've read how the overdose is supposed to go, and it's peaceful. It's quiet and it's like dying of hypothermia. You fall asleep and then your heart just... stops."_

_"Your breathing slows down while you're in a sleeping state... You get light-headed as well as blurring vision... For the first ten minutes, it's like you're sleeping. Those around you will go on like you passed out... Then, you slip into a coma, your pulse becoming more faint as time goes on... After the last 20 minutes pass, you... your heart ceases to beat like you said. I've heard about it, but I have never seen it."_

_He shook his head, stopping as he found a building. It was small, right in between two larger buildings. When we stepped inside, a couch was to the far corner as well as a end table and coffee table. Besides the scarce furniture, it was utterly empty. It must have been abandoned for maybe months now, the owner not caring for such a place. It was warm, just a little bit, and held a sense of comfort in its walls. I could tell this was where we were going to stay and where Arthur was going to die. _

_"I had an older sister that did it. I was with her. Now, it's my turn except I'm not using it because I'm depressed. I'm using it because it's... it's the less painful way out."_

_I looked at Arthur as he extended his body along the couch. He was getting into a relaxing state of mind, preparing for the end._

_I myself sat on the coffee table, pulling out my guitar and absently plucking the strings._

_"I hate this stupid guitar sometimes," I grumbled, "Every person I play it for eventually dies of a horrible, incurable disease..."_

_Arthur patted my arm before bringing it back to his chest as he pulled out the syringe again. I watched as he placed the needle into his arm and pressed the plunger at the end, all the liquid going into his arm. Almost immediately, I noticed his body become lanky and loose._

_"So... what did you want me to play?"_

_He thought it over, furrowing his brows, "Improvise. Think of something for right now."_

_"I'm not exactly the best at that, but I'll try," I spoke softly, going through my mental juke box to pick a song. At last, one hit me and I began to start its tune._

_"And the blood will dry_

_Underneath my nails,_

_And the wind will rise up_

_To fill my sails._

_So you can doubt,_

_And you can hate,_

_But I know, no matter what it takes._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home,_

_Tell the world that I'm coming home._

_Let the rain, wash away_

_All the pain of yesterday._

_I know my kingdom awaits_

_And they've forgiven my mistakes._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home,_

_Tell the world that I'm coming..._

_Still far away_

_From where I belong,_

_But it's always darkest_

_Before the dawn._

_So you can doubt,_

_And you can hate,_

_But I know, no matter what it takes._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home._

_Tell the world that I'm coming home._

_Let the rain, wash away_

_All the pain of yesterday._

_I know my kingdom awaits,_

_And they've forgiven my mistakes._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home._

_Tell the world that I'm coming..._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home,_

_Tell the world that I'm coming home._

_Let the rain, wash away_

_All the pain of yesterday._

_I know my kingdom awaits_

_And they've forgiven my mistakes._

_I'm coming home,_

_I'm coming home,_

_Tell the world that I'm coming... home."_

_By the time the song ended, Arthur was unresponsive, eyes closed and breathing barely lifting his chest. Moving my fingers to his wrist, I felt my shoulders sag. It was faint, so faint in fact that I thought he was already gone for a moment. No, he was still here. The song should have lasted perhaps 2 or 3 minutes, but I made it longer so he would hear it in his sleep. Now, I was certain he was in the coma stage of the overdose. It was only a matter of time until his pulse stopped altogether._

_Sighing, I stood and packed my guitar in it's case. I went and picked up the cans I left on the ground when we came in and set it near the case as well as the coin pouch. I was preparing to leave again because after Arthur was... no longer here, I knew I wouldn't be able to stay. The smell would be awful, but that wasn't why. I could live with the smell, blimey, I had_ lived _with the smell. I was a military man. I've smelled and scene worse, but most of the time it was the occasional stranger. Yes, it was like a sharp pang to the chest being a doctor and seeing somebody die, but this was different. _

_I was used to Arthur waking me up at the most tedious times of day to keep moving and if I was here, I didn't want to wake up to his stilled body. I didn't want to sleep in the place that a friend had died in. I know before I claimed he was an accomplice, but it wasn't it. I had only been with him for 2 weeks and I counted him more than that. A friend he was and probably one of the best._

_I swung the guitar over my back, the straps putting a brief displaced weight on my injured shoulder as it bounced against my back. I picked up the pouch and stuck it in the inner pockets of my jacket. Before I picked up the cans though, I walked over to Arthur again. His chestnut hair was plastered to his face from the cold sweats of fever and his face was flushed ever so slightly. I took his pulse again because it had roughly been fifteen minutes by now since the last check up and I needed to see. I needed to be sure before I left. I didn't want to leave him when he was still breathing, though I preferred not leaving him at all to be honest._

_No pulse._

_When I backed away, I pulled out one of the blankets he kept in his pack and draped it over his stilled form, briefly tilting my head forward in respect. I picked up the cans and walked to the door. I opened it and walked out for a moment before back-tracking. _

_I peeked into the room at Arthur, whose eyes would never open again, and whispered as a sort of salute, "Goodbye, mate. See you on the other side."_

_With that, I shut the door to my only brief friend._

When I came back from the flash, Sherlock was still glancing out the window. He was bored, but he was in thought. I could tell. His eyes were quite distant and not-seeing. He was in his own little world leaving me to sag in my seat and look up at the low roof of the cab. If Arthur had been alive to meet Sherlock, they would have gone along quite well I would think, but Arthur was of the past. I would always hold a little piece of my mind and heart to him, but I couldn't mourn him forever. He would be happy to know I did get treated for the tuberculosis in it's early stages before it worsened, but it still made me feel awful nonetheless. He should have been saved. I should have been sacrificed.

As the cabbie drove to a stop, I step out of the car, immediately greeted by the cold air. I shivered, hating the wind for making the already chilly air more freezing. Weather always seemed to be the tree-topper when it came to a murder as awful as it sounds. It was practically the one element you could count on to make the already mourning day more depressing than it has to be.

Grumbling, I walked towards the lit door, his foot steps on my heels. I wanted to get out of this bloody climate before it got me sick _again_. I barely recovered from the treatment of the last one so a double-take would not exactly end well. Hopefully the heater was on in the building, or at least, maybe they could make a fire.

I reached the door first and opened it in a mocking way for Sherlock holding the cabbie door for me earlier. I swear, the cab driver was eying me weirdly. I. Was. Not. Gay. I'm perfectly straight. Sherlock just happens to be a gentleman of sorts obviously and just takes advantage of the habit. Don't know why he chose me to lay it upon when I don't really like being pampered, but he does and I have a sinking feeling the driver wasn't the only person who thought we were in some sort of relationship that we _were not_. Just flat mates and nothing more.

He raised a brow at me but quickly walked in at my glare. I saw a faint smirk on his lips and resisted the urge to yell at him.

_Shut it ,_I thought towards him, _I don't like being out here any more than I have to._

The sound of the door hitting the hinges once more resounded against the walls as I followed the tall, dark man.

"So... who is this colleague of yours?" I asked with idle curiosity.

"Molly," he answered swiftly. His attention wasn't on my prodding I could tell. He was just looking for the next lead for his case. Wonderful.

"Does she have a last name?"

"...Hooper."

I rolled my eyes at his short, clipped responses, "No need to be descriptive. I'm only going to meet this girl for the first time and have no idea what type of person she is. You could be _oh so wonderful_ as to tell my at least what she is bloody like but that would be so hard now wouldn't it? I know nothing of this particular Molly Hooper at all or even if she is as anti-social as you are being right now so please continue ignoring me."

I suppose the most annoying thing is that he actually did just that.

When we reached the door at the end of the hallway, I felt the hairs stick up on my arms as the cold settled in. Right, this was the morgue. They had to keep it cold so the bodies didn't decompose too quickly. Nonetheless, I did get a little testy over the fact that I left the cold only to return to it.

Sherlock opened the door and strode in. I quickly scuttled in as well only to come face to face with a young lady in a lab coat. She was much shorter than Sherlock, but then again I think every body practically was, and she had brown hair pulled up into a clean pony-tail. She didn't seem surprised by Sherlock being there, but she was a little peculiar over me. Well, this was my first time meeting her. More than likely she probably thinks I'm somebody who followed Sherlock or something. Sorry, but I doubt anybody would follow this stoic man once they knew what he was like. That didn't stop me of course, but I was different and used to it by now.

"Hello Molly," Sherlock greeted swiftly, arriving at the foot of the table. The body of the female was already there along with the other two that Sherlock decided to dismiss earlier. One was a male, perhaps in his late twenties, and the other was a female, around the mid-twenties. They were both shot in the head with dead accuracy and held the same tortured marks on their wrists and ankles. The female had blonde hair, no doubt with blue eyes as well, but the male had a sort of ginger colored hair with freckles dotting his nose and cheeks.

I could tell I wasn't the only one finding this out and it only was confirmed when I turned to Sherlock, who was analyzing everything.

I decided to leave him be and turned to Molly, "Hello. Um... My name is John Watson, but you can just call me John."

She tilted her head at me and smiled as she responded, "Oh? Are you a friend of Sherlock?"

I quickly shook my head, "Ah, I honestly haven't known him much. I'm only a colleague and possible flat mate. Nothing more."

She nodded, "Oh okay. I suppose you're here with him for the case then, yes?"

I nodded and leaned towards her, whispering, "Is he always like this? Does he normally get like this with a case?"

Molly was about to answer when Sherlock turned to me, rollings his eyes, "You are a terrible whisperer, John. Oh, but to answer your indirect and pointless question, I'm going to assume you mean my personality and actions. If so, then yes. I can't have little mice running wheels in my head like your little dull minds when a case is there to solve, no, I have to have my mind palace," he waved me off as he looked at the bodies again, a faint smile on his face, "Please, John. If you are solving a case, little tedious questions are not going to suffice in finding the solution quicker. You should know that, but if you don't, then you do know now. Please think your questions through before saying them aloud might I add."

I felt my eye twitch and Molly snickered beside me. I was close to scolding him, but I took a long, deep breath and instead spoke calmly, "Okay.. what have you deduced from them then since I'm sure you are _so_ adamant to share the information with us."

Looking at me, he shook his head and gave me a petri dish with white grains inside, "No, no John. No time. I'll tell you later, but for now, go see if you can find out what this is."

I glared at him as I took a hold of the dish, "I'm a doctor, not a bloody chemist."

He rolled his eyes, "Oh John... Please do your research. If you are a doctor, you should have the common knowledge of chemistry somewhere in that head of yours. Now off you go." I heard him chuckle lightly as I made some flabbergasted noises upon him pushing my out the door, "Oh, and the laboratory door is the second door to the right. I'll join you shortly."

As the door shut behind me, I stood there for a moment, shock registering on my face. Did he-?

_I swear _I thought with a light hint of malice before removing the anger with resignation, _Well, I suppose I should get used to this. This is case! Sherlock Holmes I am speaking of so I doubt he registers anything beyond his cases in this mode. I really should get a water bottle or something to squirt him with when he gets too hot to handle though._

After glaring at the door for a moment, I shook my head with a smile on my face. I walked to the laboratory door while trying to remember the first few steps of the scientific method.

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><p><em>The song in this is Skylar Grey's Coming Home Part II. I heard it and I honestly love it more than part one.<em>

_I swear. After I wrote the last thought John had, my sister and I cried from laughing. Imagine John holding a squirt bottle to Sherlock. Just imagine it. It would be quite the hilarious encounter, yes? _

_So, I hate this chapter. It isn't good at all, but hopefully it will suffice for now. _

_Chapter 6 WILL be up today. I promise. Pinky promise. _

_But yes, John had it difficult in his last two weeks of being on the streets, making friends with a terminal man... *sigh* at first I was going to give Arthur a lung puncture from when he fought with the hostile blokes of the streets, but then tuberculosis sounded a lot better and more impacting. _

_Review/Critique/Whatever you wish!_

_Ciao_


	6. Chapter 6

_Hello you lovely readers. I broke a promise. I promised one yesterday (since it is now 12:29 am here), but I was busy. My father wanted to take me to see the Blue Men Group and then I had to clean and all that lovely, pointless actions._

_But yes, this is like another filler... kind of. I wrote this before chapter 5, originally planning on using this for perhaps chapter 10 or something, but then I wrote chapter 5 and saw how the two could coordinate with one another. It's choppy and I hate this chapter so very much, but I plan to make the 7th chapter extra special since I get to write a few hints of the johnlock, but I'm not going to make it sappy. I don't do sappy and let's face it, Johnlock sappiness isn't going to happen by chapter ten. That's unrealistic in my point of view, but there will be innuendos and hints._

_Thank you for the new followers and favorites! I love you all for that!_

_Oh, warning, this chapter is kind of a little bit of a friendship chapter thing I guess between Molly and John since it was a suggestion. Sherlock does appear, but he doesn't play a huge role in this one. Sorry Sherlock! You will get your time to shine in the next one, trust me._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. I wish I did so I could preform all the possible ships, but that is highly irrational and unrealistic. I also don't own the song sung in this._

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><p><strong>John<strong>  
>"Prat. I'm a bloody doctor, not some chemical warfare genius," I muttered, adjusting the dial to 120x. I didn't know what I was looking for, especially since Sherlock just pushed the petri dish in my palms and declared he was going to observe the girls body. He didn't say "Oh look at the grains" or "test it with this", bit of course not. That would be too easy. He wants me to fry my cranium just so I can "think outside my dull, boring, insufferable box". Well, as a matter of fact, I was. I just couldn't see it.<p>

It looked like regular sugar but telling Sherlock that would make him look at me like I was an idiot, in which to him I might as well be since he never expresses anything else. To him, I will just be his virtuous (probably not even that) blogger. As much as he claims to be smarter than the average man, he lacks in everything relating to social and emotional impacts. Knowledge of 243 different cigarette ash? Yes. Information as to how to say "I'm sorry?". No.

Sighing, I push back my short plastered bangs aside and went back to the microscope. Everything in front of my eyes were blurring as I stared at it longer and longer. What did Sherlock see that I did not? He saw who the murderer was more than likely as if the granites were alphabetical spaghetti-o's that was in plain sight.

Maybe my guitar will help me let off some frustration...

I was starting to air strum a tune when Molly ran in, strands of brown hair peeking out of her normal neat pony tail. She appeared to be heading to the locker rooms like she was going to leave and I could see it in the way she walked that she did. She wasn't briskly walking as if she was here for something, it was as if she was running away from something though that can't be it. Her hands were in tight, small fists by her side, stiffly swinging as if robotic. Everything shouted "I'm leaving because if I stay here it will not be good." Who would she be running from though? She was pretty much friends with anybody with her cheeky smile and bubbly attitude, despite being around the dead. It kind of made me want to ask her about it, but I suppose bothering her wouldn't be a good idea right now. Nonetheless, I walked to her and smiled a little before it fell at her tear-stained face. Her eyes were flushed red with pink indicators of how much she had been crying. It had been a lot and she still was crying. Oh god, what happened?

Forget formalities, she's a friend, I'm sure she will understand.

"Molly?" I questioned, "Are you alright?"

She gave me a watery smile, "Y-Yeah just perfect. I just... hit my head is all." She knocked her head a little with her knuckles to emphasize the point. Her eyes refused to meet mine though, she was lying. She never was the best liar, even In front of a "oblivious bore" as I.

"Molly," I pressured, "I know you certainly didn't hit your head. No indications or symptoms. You were, however, with Sherlock until a minute ago. What happened?"

She eyed my with wide eyes before shaking her head. She was tight lipped as she looked at me, walls coming up to shield her. I continued to watch her though. I knew if I did this long enough she would crack.

"You can tell me anything," I reminded her softly, watching as she started nibbling her bottom lip and running her fingers through her messy pony tail over and over.

"It really is nothing, John. I mean it. Just a little emotional I guess," she chuckled half - heartedly. No Molly. I know that's not it. Stop hiding behind lies, they only make it worse.

"Please? Maybe I can help. You never know," I tried to reassure, using my doctor voice that I place on frightened children who cry since they fear hospitals or needles or some little things. It sometimes worked, but was more potent when the person they loved most was helping in the soothing. Right now, Molly didn't have anybody with her but me and I don't think I count.

It did the trick though. She eyed me with a sad smile, giving a breathless chuckle, "nothing. I normally come to the lab like this, I just didn't expect you to be here John."

_I normally come to the lab like this._ She looked me in the eye as she said this. She wasn't lying. She comes here normally to cry? To wallow in her sadness _alone_? No. That isn't right. She shouldn't be alone or anything, but who was she to come to? I mean, I'm normally with Sherlock and when she rushes out I usually thought it was for evidence. I thought she was doing something very Molly. It was only chance that I even caught this now!

My doctor mode came in. How long had this been going on? Months? _Years_ even? It wasn't depression. I know depression due to being gripped by the dark cloud personally. She was still smiling with warmth and sunshine, but that...doesn't add up. She must be getting picked on then right? But then, and even if it was that, by who? I need to ask this. To help as a friend who is quite worried.

"Wait, you normally come here crying? How often?" I was upset. Molly was practically the kindest person I know besides Mrs. Hudson. She shouldn't be crying everyday in a lonely lab. She should be smiling, laughing, and perhaps even in love at the age she was in. Tear stained features didn't suit her well. It made her look outcast-ed and drained.

"Ah, it's of no use. Just forget it alright? I'll be working on the samples for S-Sherlock," she mumbled, walking over to the microscope to set up the petri dishes and slabs for the utensil.

I wasn't stupid though. She stuttered on Sherlock's name and only his name. He did something, or he has been doing something, to her and she has been coming here every time to let out the tears she holds inside. It's...awful how blatantly absurd Sherlock can be.

I leaned on the lab table in front of Molly, eying her with concern, "It was Sherlock wasn't it?"

Her hands shook as she placed the specimen down and nodded.

"What has he said or done to you, maybe I could talk-"

"No!" she spoke quickly, "I-I mean, no. It's okay. I'm used to it."

"It still doesn't answer my question Molly. You shouldn't be used to it either! That's not a good sign..."

She picked up the little dishes once more, ordering them in alphabetical order for the distinct detective not present. She was ignoring me a little. I could tell she didn't want to talk about it, but keeping it built up is not a healthy tactic. Talking to a friend is much better, at least she won't be suffering alone. Sherlock, the twat, may not care that she cries for him, but I have a tad bit more compassion and tact than him. He may think caring is a disadvantage, but right now, it is the only thing that will help. She isn't going to stop crying because of a turned head and nonchalant attitude as much as Sherlock may think so. She is human... like me. She needs to reside in someone that isn't his stoic, dickhead self; a pariah to emotional attachments.

I tapped the table, watching as each tap caused her to go a little more unsteady, a bit more unresolved. She wanted to drop it so bad, but she also wanted to speak. Her head was telling her to be quiet and reserved until she was home, but her heart was shouting to give in to friends. She was in the middle, in limbo, unsure as to what to do. I knew I could to nothing to push her and even if I did I still wouldn't do it. This was her decision and if she didn't want to tell me...well, then I will understand. I wouldn't be happy, but I would understand.

Time wore on like that, my tapping to her observations on the petri dish I long gave up on. I was going to leave her to herself when she spoke. It was soft, like she wasn't sure.

"It only happened after the first day I met him. At first, I thought he was handsome and smart..." she reddened slightly before taking a shaky breath, "but then I saw his actual side. You have seen it too John. The side of him that brushes you aside like you don't count? That's what he treats me like. I'm just a pawn he can throw away, a piece of a puzzle worth sacrificing to him."

"Now Molly-"

"He has never said thank you, you know," she mumbled softly with sad, downcast eyes, "he only dismisses my attempts to be his friend. I do try John, but I just don't seem to have the touch that you have with him. I have been his... mortuary guide for years and I haven't so much as gotten any sort of appreciation. You have been with him for not even a month and I can tell he has warmed up to you far better than myself."

"Honestly? I think he keeps me around just to keep Mrs. Hudson from forcing a flat mate onto him. He mostly refers to me a bore. You are far better Ms. Hooper." I was hoping for a smile but nothing of the sort.

"Does he mention me, at all?"

I blinked, "well..."

She shook her head, "he doesn't right? See John? You may be just his flat mate, but I bet you have seen his docile side. I only dream of being a friend long enough to see that."

"I rarely see it-"

"But at least you do, or have the chance to. I have seen the looks he gives you. He smiles and laughs and actually appreciates your assistance more than ever where as I have been here with nothing more than a quaint comment and a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. I'm not jealous so much as I am downcast on the actions, John."

I was silent, a little surprised by what she said. He has never actually taken into account what she has done for him? Ever? As much as I wanted to say that it was Sherlock we were talking about, I knew it wouldn't help the situation at all. She needed some sort of consoling but words were not it. She needed a different language that meant the exact same thing.

Good thing I knew exactly what that was.

Sighing, I smiled to her, "Here. Let me go get something. Will you sit in the stool in front of me please." She nodded and took a seat, eying me as I took out my guitar, a brand new fender with a gold finish with tinges of a faded blue. It was a gift since Sherlock could never get my other one back. I tried all week and nothing. This guitar was good, but it wasn't the same. It was still a little stiff, but I almost had it broken in. Only a few chords struggled here and there now.

I briefly judged Molly's face and expression, bodily and facial, before unraveling my pick from behind my dog tags. Even Sherlock didn't see it until I pulled it from its crevice.

"I'm not the best with creating songs on the spot," I spoke softly, a little sheepish grin on my face, "But I can surely think of something to cheer you up, Ms. Molly Hooper. I can at least do that for a brilliant woman as you. Improvising may be on my side today just for you."

I plucked a few notes here and there to think of the right song to start to. I always wrote the guitar portion of a song before placing lyrics, always thinking the guitar is what mattered. I just had to think of the right song to start with. Something slow and peaceful, yet it holds an underlining of wistful thinking and unsaid emotion.

I ceased my fingering as the notes flowed through the tips. That tune. That one will work for her.

Strumming with more meaning, I started playing:

_When she was just a girl_  
><em>She expected the world<em>  
><em>But it flew away from her reach<em>  
><em>So she ran away in her sleep<em>  
><em>Dreamed of para- para- paradise<em>  
><em>Para- Para- Paradise<em>  
><em>Para- Para- Paradise<em>  
><em>Every time she closed her eyes<em>  
><em>Whoa-oh-oh oh-oooh oh-oh-oh<em>

_When she was just a girl_  
><em>She expected the world<em>  
><em>But it flew away from her reach<em>  
><em>And the bullets catch in her teeth<em>

_Life goes on_  
><em>It gets so heavy<em>  
><em>The wheel breaks the butterfly<em>  
><em>Every tear, a waterfall<em>  
><em>In the night, the stormy night<em>  
><em>She closed her eyes<em>  
><em>In the night, the stormy night<em>  
><em>Away she'd fly.<em>

_And dreamed of para- para- paradise_  
><em>Para- Para- Paradise<em>  
><em>Para- Para- Paradise<em>  
><em>Whoa-oh-oh oh-oooh oh-oh-oh<em>

_So lying underneath those story skies_  
><em>She said oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh<em>  
><em>I know the sun's set to rise.<em>

_This could be para- para- paradise_  
><em>Para- para- paradise<em>  
><em>This could be para- para- paradise<em>  
><em>Whoa-oh-oh oh-oooh oh-oh-oh.<em>

_This could be para- para- paradise_  
><em>Para- para- paradise<em>  
><em>Could be para- para- paradise<em>  
><em>Whoa-oh-oh oh-oooh oh-oh-oh<em>

_This could be para- para- paradise_  
><em>Para- para- paradise<em>  
><em>Could be para- para- paradise<em>  
><em>Whoa-oh-oh oh-oooh oh-oh-oh.<em>

_Oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo_  
><em>Oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo, oo-oo-oo<em>

I continued to pluck the strings, even after the lyrics ended, to make it softly drift off.

Looking up, she was crying again. Wait, did I make her cry? Was my song making this ten times worse than it was before.

"Oh God Molly, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry-"

"No, no it's okay John. That-That was the most beautiful and the kindest thing anybody has ever really done for me. Thank you." With that she walked over to where I was placing my guitar against the table and hugged me. It made me feel older, but it was okay if it made her happy. Her body trembled slightly, but that quickly disappeared within a few seconds. She was showing her brief side of weakness before steeling up for the rest of the day. I frowned, but said nothing as I felt a few stray tears soak into my shirt. I patted her back a little awkwardly, a little unsure of what to do. Should I murmur little nothings or should I do worthless somethings? I was never one for comforting, even if I was a doctor of sorts. Maybe rubbing the back up and down could help. It was what my mother used to do with me so I suppose it would work here, right?

Deciding to do what my mother did to me, I gently made circles on her back along with little other shapes like her name and a smiley face. Little things really, but I knew that she was calming down a bit from it. Her tears and little hiccups were slowly fading to the occasional hitch of breath. Good, that's it. You really shouldn't be upset Molly... Especially from a dick-head like Sherlock.

I swear I'm going to punch Sherlock next time I see him though. Punching him had been in little notations here and there since I met his arrogant nature. I mostly hear it in minor subtext to what he does, but this act was in bright read letters in the script. It was bold, italicized, and underlined for me to see on a bright neon light. No subtitles to keep me from performing it.

Turned out that was going to come quicker than I thought.

"Hey Molly, would you-" He stopped when he saw me glaring at him. He looked earnestly confused and it almost set me off guard a little. Did he really think he did nothing wrong? How oblivious can this prat be to emotions? He probably didn't know he was hurting her and as much as that angered me, it made me feel some pity for the man. He was human, just inexperienced I suppose.

His eyes were trying to deduct what had happened, but came up empty. I could hear Molly scurry around to try and set up the microscope, but nothing was said. Silence was tangent right now with flickers of stress.

I looked at Molly and her face was turned away from Sherlock and me, focused entirely on her work. She refused to share a look with me, knowing exactly that Sherlock would deduce what had happened. She didn't want him to know, especially since I wasn't even supposed to know. She was trying to keep it a secret for as long as it could take though she knew that since I found out it was only a matter of the hour that Sherlock would see. Molly had years to steel up against Sherlock where as I haven't even had a few days to adjust to his persecuting looks. I was still an open book, slowly inching towards being taped shut.

I sighed and stood, grabbing my guitar case and swung it over my shoulder. I was not going to punch Sherlock now that I think of it, but I wasn't going to stay here either. I didn't want to give Molly away and I didn't want to deal with his oblivious remarks at the moment. Picking up a few papers of my research I had gathered, I place them in the case before walking towards the exit. By then, Sherlock could sense I was leaving and watched me with curiosity and minor concern.

"Where are you going John? We have a case to finish. If your hungry, I can send Molly to get something."

I was almost going to leave without punching him. I was almost going to walk out that door with no scratches on his face, but that did it. The remark was almost exactly what I was angry at him for being. Absurd and utterly ignorant to those who try to care for him. Turning around swiftly, I threw a left hook at Sherlock's nose, effectively earning a grunt as he clutched his bleeding nose. It wasn't broken, I know how much pressure it takes to break ones nose, but it was definitely going to be painful and bloody for a while. Sometimes the perks of being in the medical field were endless. Perhaps now he will think of what he had done, or become slightly more observant to the aura of the scene. Read the mood so to speak.

"John!" Molly yelped, running over to Sherlock to start wiping his face with the paper towels. Sherlock on the other hand watched me with confusion and minor annoyance, "What was that for?"

Oh what I would give to punch him again, but no. One punch was good enough, for now anyways. That, and I swear his sharp cheekbones cut my knuckles when I grazed them.

"Why don't you ask Molly. It's your fault anyways." With that I walked out of the lab, fists bleeding and a destination in mind. As I walked away, I heard Sherlock and Molly speak a little.

"I am confused Molly. One second John is happy that we are getting close to the murderer and ending this tiring charade, and the next he punched me to the ground with the anger of a wild wildebeast," Sherlock mumbled, grabbing the towels from Molly's shaky hands to clean his face himself.

"He had a good reason to," she replied softly. I knew Sherlock would be looking at her for that comment. It was simple and unexplained so he would want an explanation.

"What did I do to get it?" he muttered and I knew he was probably thinking it had something to do with his habits at home and not with people.

Turning back to look at the two, I saw Molly lift her head and looked Sherlock in the eyes.

"Molly... you've been crying..."

After that, I left the room, my anger displaced with a draining of energy and the will for this day to be over already.

**-Unknown POV-**

I watched from my perch behind an alley as an angry John Watson strode out of the laboratory. His hands were in fists and his mouth in a tight line. Ah, he was angry. That's good. He won't notice much with his anger clouding his eyes then. Perfect! Well, I suppose if he wasn't angry it would be more interesting, but oh well. I'll take what I can get since I don't want Johnny boy to sense what is going on. That would spoil everything and once a game is spoiled, the supposed loser will win! Where's the fun in that? Utterly no where.

He looked as if he was brewing profanities in his mind as he stood at the edge of the sidewalk, his hand in mid-air. He was trying to decide whether to get a cab or not.

He ended up hailing a cab so that means he was planning to walk home. Probably to get rid of all that stress he has pent up from being around Sherlock. I sighed as I saw him turn into an alley, his eyes glazed over in thought. I just wish he was a little more imaginative in his way home. At least if he hailed a cab, I could have caused a car accident, murder, suicide all in one! Now I have to resort to the more dull, parasitic methods and although they may be a little more satisfying and lengthy, they didn't have the same impact as a bomb or a pill that causes asphyxia on your own bodily fluids.

People these days are so boring and dull; often associated with those of the good. Well, the good are foolish, which is why I'm not one of them. If there is one thing I'm not, it's a fool.

Motioning to the man next to me, we start to follow Dr. Watson down the alley way. My precious hit man, Sebby, inched in front of me, his ginger hair clouding my view. I frowned, but decided to whine about the actions later when my game wasn't at stake.

Removing a long, lead pipe from under his coat, I saw him lift it. The shadows didn't give as away nor did any useless, nosy people. It was the perfect scene for a murder, though as much as it pained me, this wasn't going to be a murder, moreover an attack on the king in a revolving chess game. The reaction would be up to the opposing side of course. Would he try to save his king, or would he sacrifice him in terms of redoing the game? It all truly depends on the man of choice, though I have a feeling he will choose the first rather than the latter. He was so dull that way with undetectable sentiment and underlining emotion.

The hit was quick and swift with no shriek to be heard. Smiling at Sebby, I prance over to the crumpled form, using my two fingers to feel for a pulse. It was faint, but still there. I glared at Sebby, a little miffed by how close we got to exposing our side for check mate, "You almost killed him!"

He shrugged, "I don't know why you want him alive anyways. You were going to kill him despite everything right? I just made it more quicker and a little less psychotic."

I pouted, "Aw. Sebby, why are you so mean! You can't get rid of my toy when I just opened the package you know," I smiled before adding in a sing-song voice," But don't be so obvious! I'm going to kill him soon enough, but it won't be right now. I want to see him suffer so he knows that his death will be so much more painful and utterly gleeful might I add."

Sebby shook his head, "Sometimes I worry if working with you was such a good idea after all-"

"-But then you see how amazing I am in terms of murders and crawl back to me with a trigger finger itching for blood," I finished with a smirk.

A humorless chuckle before he picked up the unconscious John. He didn't even grunt or flinch from the weight of the ex-army doctor. He acted as if it was just another murder and swung him limply over his shoulder. Blood was dripping down John's face and onto the pavement. Well, I didn't say I was going to let John get out nice and easy did I? Besides, this was more so a... punishment for Sherlock than to John so who cares what I do to him. Daddy is not happy and he needs to teach his boring son who to listen to, even if it means taking his toys away in the process and locking him up in a white room.

I skipped ahead of the two and lead the way to our temporary home, or to John, his temporary hell.

**John**

When I awoke, I was in a dark room, attached to a chair with my hands tied behind my back by the wrists. The rope was so tight it was digging into my skin almost like a scalpel. My ankles were also attached the legs of the chair by rope. My head was swimming, barely able to focus on anything.

What happened? Last thing I remembered was that I was walking through an alley to get home. I refused to get a cab because I needed the fresh air to clear my thoughts, but that might have been the better choice now that I think of it. The only concept I was sure of was that I got hit by a pipe in the back of my head, but I didn't know what happened afterward. Everything went black with only pain as my friend.

I flinched as I felt a cold draft hit my wound. It was still fresh so I hadn't been here long, right? Where even was _here_?

I couldn't tell anything from this room. It was dark and quiet. It held a musty scent to everything along with dust I believe. Judging by the brief claustrophobia I was feeling, it was a small room. Too small for my comfort. So windows anywhere, but a few bricks or boards must have been knocked out to feel the draft that hit my wound. As I tried to notice any other aspects in the room, I felt a sharp pain in my cranium and flinched. Okay, maybe thinking too hard wasn't a good idea.

Still, I don't even know why I was here. I didn't do anything wrong, blimey, I didn't even have an actual home until a few days ago! I was homeless and as far as I knew, didn't cause too many negative actions unless some blokes got too territorial over a building or a specific corner of an alley. This was different though. This wasn't an angered homeless man, no, this was somebody of more clarity. It had to be. Rope nowadays was quite hard to get a hold of if you were on the streets unless you knew people, and not many do. The chair was wooden, but it had sewn in cushions so it was also on the wealthy side. This was a man of wealth, power, and capability.

I tried moving my hands again to no avail. My vision was still blurred with a black fog along the edges. I could feel my head becoming slightly lighter, but harder to keep up. My heart beat was slowing down to a more slower pace. My finger tips and toes were becoming frozen. Oh God, I lost too much blood, I am _losing _too much much blood. All the blood I do have is retreating to the vital organs to keep them going. If I don't get out of here and into the public somehow, I was going to die here.

It was at this point that I saw the door open. Light poured in and hit me in the face. My head was screaming in retaliation of the sudden change in scenery and I felt it with the sudden pounding and faint ringing in my ears. No, I can't black out from such a little thing! You're a soldier John, or at least you were, but nonetheless, you can't throw in the towel at such a little reactant. Pull it through John.

I squinted as I noticed the two figures standing at the edge. One was taller than the other by perhaps a good few inches. The taller silhouette stood stiffly with his arms lanky and his hands in his pockets. Although, since their forms were black, they could also be behind his back with a weapon of notion. I hope not. I don't know how long this body can take thanks to the previous blow.

The shorter one was a lot more playful looking, though he also seemed to be the one in charge.

I began to feel my heart drop when they shut the door behind them, leaving me in utter darkness and with the feeling that I will not get out of here without a single scratch. Far, far worse than that.

**Unknown POV**

As I shut the door, I carefully walked over to John. His face was priceless when we opened the door. You should have seen it! It was a mixture of confusion, worry, and pain. I love it when all three of those emotions are put into play. It makes for a wonderful interrogation and torture.

The lights were to remain off. That was strictly to keep my identity in check and undercover. I didn't want to reveal my hand to such a boring individual as John, at least, not yet. I want to remain a shadow so that when I do appear, they will be caught off guard and I can take my prize. Planning can be a pain, but it does have it's points.

"Hello John," I purred next to John's ears, my eyes already adjusted to the darkness. Peering over at Sebastian, I could tell his were too. He had his Swiss army knife gripped firmly between his hands, reflexes ready for an slice I commanded.

John flinched at my voice and I chuckled lightly.

"W-What do you want?" he asked. It was supposed to be forceful, like a command, though it was faltering. Ah, the blood loss must be taking its toll. Absolutely lovely. A weak mouse gives me something to play with.

"I don't think you are in the perspective to be asking questions traitor," I responded with a sickening sweet voice. John stilled visibly, his voice shortening as I mentioned the vital word that meant everything to him. The word that gave away what he did. He is such a silly boy, though. He was a soldier, so he should be able to brush this aside. I guess he is too weak, this angel. His wings were stripped of him, leaving him to fall to the earth in an unceremonious announcement. Tragic really, but I enjoy tragedies with a passion. This one, John, was only one of many.

"I- How do you know about that," he whispered, his voice losing all strength. Pity. I was hoping for a more fiery attitude in his being. Oh well.

"Oh, I have my sources," I chided, "But that's besides the point. You are wondering why you are here yes? A little injured mouse in a long, tedious game with a cat. Well, you are not really here for something _you _did per say. You are actually here for the actions of somebody else. You just happened to get attached to the wrong sort of company I fear," I picked up my hands and shook my head, a mockingly sad look on my face.

"Sherlock," John whispered and I grinned.

"Yes. Good boy. I'm sure Sherlock has trained you well as his little _pet_."

"I won't tell you anything about him, or the case we are in. I hope you know that," John spoke defiantly. I felt my smile turn upside down and vaguely motioned for Sebastian to get his knife ready. He nodded and ripped off the jacket and shirt that John was wearing, cutting the sleeves where they started getting close to the tied wrists. John shivered heavily as the cold weather met his skin and I giggled.

"Now, now Johnny. You really shouldn't dismiss such _innocent_ inquiries. Daddy has had enough of this, you see, and I'm sure once you have learned your... lesson, you will be fully ready to respond."

I gestured to Sebastian again and he grinned a little malicious grin of his own. And he says _I'm _the psychological one! Well, to be fair, I suppose I did have maybe a little influence on him. It showed in how he stalked towards John. My hands itched to join in the painful charade, but I prefer not to get my hands dirty.

Sebastian stood in front of John, staring down at him. Then, at once, he slashed multiple lacerations on John's upper arms. At first they were shallow before they delve further into his skin, dark liquid pouring out. I imagined it being crimson, but couldn't satisfy the hunger with the lights being off. All the same, the liquid continued to pour heavily out of John as Sebastian finished his tattered arms and began on his chest. I pitied the poor man for being literally all skin and bones, but it quickly fled to glee as cuts adorned his pale body as well. I watched in awe as Sebastian started getting more creative. He used his knife to write words. I made out a few and they were harsh, but beautiful.

During all of this, John was yelling. At first he was brave, trying to hold in the pain, but he had to let it out somehow and I must say the screams were like music to my ears. Beautiful and utterly inhuman in some ways. God, I should witness Sebastian's play time much more often if it's like this.

Once I felt that John had learned his lesson, I placed a calm hand on Sebastian's shoulder. He nodded and backed off, black liquid falling off his knife in small, potent drops.

I tilted John's head up and looked him in the eyes, "Now, will you tell me anything of my choosing, _pet_?"

John was barely conscious, but nonetheless still shook his head.

Angered, I dropped his head, watching as it hit his chest and stayed there. Before I walked out, I looked at Sebastian, "Do whatever you like Sebby. Think of this as an early birthday present."

With that, I shut the door.

It was only a matter of time until he was broken anyways. When that did happen, then I suppose I'll just go after the more expensive toy.

* * *

><p><em>The song I had John sing was based off the acoustic version of Paradise by Coldplay. The original is wonderful as well, but I was influenced for the acoustic. This mainly occurred because of the fact that I saw a certain unrequited Sherlolly video on youtube where it's about Molly liking Sherlock but not the other way around and all. The song was that song and therefore, I used it. It's quite fitting actually.<em>

_Okay, maybe I lied a little bit. It was a little Molly/John comrade stuff, but I couldn't help but to place a little pain in there. I'm sorry, I enjoy writing dark, depressing, and utterly painful literature. I enjoy reading such as well. Overall, I'm even a depressed type of person, so it is to be expected that John will get hurt... a lot._

_Now, with that said, I will admit that writing the Unknown POV of the Man That Shall Not Be Named, was really fun. I enjoyed it a lot since it was just... just so carefree and downright sadistic. Ah, I might have to start out the next chapter with his POV with how I enjoy writing such._

_Sebastian, as some of you know, more than likely does not look like how I describe him. I honestly tried to search a legit description of his appearance, but few sources were found so this is how he is pictured in my mind for now. I may return later to change it to blond or some other absurd color when I get more information._

_Poor John though. He will be traumatized you know. That much I will guarantee. PTSD... not so sure._

_That's it! I will try to force another chapter out of me this week but I cannot promise such. I have an art competition this Saturday and my pieces must be done by Friday. I still have a lot of work and even more paperwork to do, so my schedule is tight. No matter though, if I can't get it out this week, you WILL get two chapters next week for sure. (Maybe even three, I don't know.)_

_You know the drill. Comment/Critique and all that. _

_Ciao_


	7. Chapter 7

_I'm so sorry for how utterly horrible this will be! For all this week, as well as last weekend, I was sick with the flu and since I was a stubborn arse about it, I refused to take any medicine that would get me better. I have been feverish and have been harnessing constant migraines, but I was adamant on writing this for you guys! I don't know how good it is, but I hope it helps for now? _

_Chapter 8 is in the writing and I'm actually typing it quite a bit (hopefully it will be out this week). Um... let's see, other than that I suppose you shouldn't expect any other delays! I'm going to state for the art competition I mentioned but that isn't until early April so I have a lot of time till then. The only hindering aspects to suspect are my health really. If I'm not feverish, or at least if I can read the words, expect me to write a lot. _

_I really need to stop rambling about these pointless things haha~ but nonetheless, thank you for all the lovely reviews, follows, favorites, etc! I love you all for that and it was nice to check my email after school and find another follow/review/favorite because that meant you actually liked it!_

_Oh, I want to thank the ever so wonderful World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady for conversing with me! She is utterly amazing you guys. Her writing is fantastic and she is the best person ever with her kindness and everything! Please take a look at her fanfictions because they are worth it! :)_

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Nope, nope, nope. Do I wish so? Yes. But I don't._

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><p><strong>Unknown POV<strong>

The streets were beginning to be speckled with white as we drove by. It was pretty, though uncommon here. We didn't normally get too much snow, but when it did occur, I usually used it to the best of my advantage. That being murder and owing people. The snow was perfect when you wanted to disturb peace in the bustling city of London. A cold, stiff body in a cold, beautiful wonderland of white. Red splatter feet from the corpse. A bullet wound to the head. A few noticeable methods to incise a paling remains. Most of these were enough to make the usual boring man cringe and become traumatized, but I lived for it, thrived for it even. Thought it to be a game of sort, and in more ways than one, it was.

A simple, risky game of chess. Of course, in this game I will forever be the darker side, alluding the other side to my tactics. I aim to make them suffer for my own personal enjoyment, though nowadays less and less people have met my requirements. I only have a few people on my list before I must resort to the common-wealth. It was absolutely depressing in terms of boredom. The common were gullible. Kill the wife, murder the daughter, lacerate the father, it all was the same. If you were to delete the physical contact of the individual closest to them, they will do anything. Anything at all.

This has led me to my current game. A new opponent has resided into the white side and he meets my requirements with determination.

Sherlock Holmes.

I planned at first to go after his older brother, but why get rid of one when you can get rid of two birds with one stone? Granted this would deprive me of one less of a match, but it will be even more appealing to see two men cringe in defeat than one. If I get rid of the one close to Sherlock, I will break him. If I break the spirit of the elder Holmes younger brother, he himself with break and resort to the most reckless of methods. From there on, the game will be most pleasant and utterly suspenseful. The best kind.

But right now it is far too early to be planning such a meticulous task as that. Right now, I must return my turn of the chess board. I must use my knight to get rid of a minor pawn. I need to get rid of one brick on his wall so he will weaken ever so slightly. I just wish John was a much more prominent pawn than he was.

Sighing, I lean on the window and motion to Sebastian, "How long until we get there Sebby? I feel as if I'm going to have to start doing some mark-making of my own with all this boredom piling up."

Sebastian looked up at me before going back to cleaning his knife, "You wanted to do this in the first place so don't go complaining to me. It's not like I care if you start killing the man on your own. Wouldn't be the first time."

I whined, tugging on Sebastian's black sleeve, "But I can't _kill_ him. He isn't important to Sherlock enough yet. Can't you give me something to do?"

His eye twitched, "Play the quiet game."

Pouting, I plumped back into my side of the seat, arms crossed over my chest. I should have brought my cell phone or something or the sort if I knew it was going to take this long. I could have been planning the next slicing of a pawn at that moment, but instead I sat there absolutely bored out of my mind. I began tapping on the glass, condensed with the temperature difference from outside and in, drawing little figures. I drew an apple and smiled before writing "I O U" in it. Smiling, I looked at Sebastian, tugging on his sleeve again.

"Can I see your phone?"

He rolled his eyes and handed it over, "You never listen if I say no anyways."

Unlocking his phone, I pointed it at the window and snapped the picture of the apple. Playing with the effects, I made sure to make the apple stand out compared to the rest of the transparent glass. Satisfied with the results, I grabbed John's phone from his pant pocket and copied the number down onto the contacts before sending the picture. As I continued playing with both phones, I felt Sebastian look over my shoulder with a raised brow.

"I owe you?"

I turned to him and rolled my eyes at his obvious incompetency, "Yes. I obviously owe Sherlock for giving me an interesting game to play. I owe him so much and everyone knows I pay my debts back in full," I smiled sweetly at the ginger-haired man whom just shrugged and went back to cleaning his knife.

By the time I was finished setting John's phone up, the cab had stopped at our destination. I motioned for the driver to stay as we take out the trash and opened the door. Sebastian did the same and picked up the unconscious John Watson, throwing him over his shoulder once more like a bag of potatoes. I myself dropped John's phone into a prepared envelope and sealed it quickly and neatly, a smirk on my lips as I eyed the injured soldier.

He wasn't in good shape. Many incisions decorated his pale, brittle body like scars and I was proud to say that I saw most of them occur. Some of the more deeper and fresher ones were when I walked out though. I didn't ask Sebastian what he did, assuming that he just tested out his new skills on his present. I was just happy that our first pawn was taken care of. One of many. Of course, I just hope that Sherlock gets home soon or his precious pet may be dead. If I remember correctly, he didn't exactly recover too well from the last pet he lost.

"What if the old woman is home?"

I shrugged, "We say john was passed out on the road and we are just taking him home."

"Why don't we just kill her?"

I glared at him, "Don't make it too obvious Sebby. You know I can't do that, not yet at least. I have to wait for the right moment to get rid of that part. I have to time it right so I can burn the king."

Sebastian eyed me, "You use chess allusions too often you know. Why can't it be some other game, checkers or monopoly of some sort? Why does your games resemble chess?"

I smiled and patted his arm, "Ah, well, think of it as this, most of the people I _play_ with are always the supposed best in one way or another. This makes them the aim, the king. Now, checkers has no king, all its subjects are equal. Nobody is equal to the opponent, or isn't supposed to be. That is why there is only one opponent. The rest are just subordinates, mere pawns that relate to the king, but are not important."

He nodded, "Right."

Laughing a little at the subtle answer, I scurry to the door. I was anxious to get this out of the way. This would be the first move of my many, but it all would be pointless if Sherlock never tried to retaliate, and if I was correct, he will be home soon enough.

I went ahead first and opened the door. It just happened that the old woman wasn't home at this time. How... disappointing to be honest. It would have been fun to have an extra move on the board. A little bit more blood to the bath.

Walking up the wooden steps, we arrived at Sherlock's flat. It didn't take long to unlock the door, amateur really.

John was still bleeding quite a lot still. I briefly wondered if Sebastian hit a vital organ or artery, but brushed it aside. If Sherlock was going to be home soon, then I have no need to worry! He will be able to save his precious pet. Nonetheless, blood drops were making a trail to the flat_._ It was like a crimson bread crumb path that Sherlock would follow home. He wouldn't meet a witch this time around, but oh how he will later. After all, every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain and I just happen to be the best.

"Where do we place this one?" Sebastian grumbled, grunting a little as he adjusted the dying man on his shoulder.

I briefly consider the messy surroundings before shrugging, "Just drop him here. The room is too stuffy and cluttered to really think it over it seems. Daddy wishes that Sherlock kept his room clean, but I will punish him later for that."

He did just that. I heard the thump as Sebastian practically rolled John off his shoulder onto the floor. It wasn't the heavy one of a grown man, but the echo of a dying one.

I removed the envelope with John's phone from my pocket and observed it quickly. The display with the image should be set for 10 minutes, plenty of time for Sherlock to get home and notice the package, or if he saves John, for John to tell him about the envelope.

With that, I placed the envelope in John's left pocket of his jacket and walked out, satisfied, but not fully.

An odd event happened at that moment. While Sebastian and I walked down the stairs, Sherlock was walking up them. I purposely moved to the side and bumped into the coated man. Briefly sharing glances with me, he mumbled a gritted attempt of an apology, a nod of sorts, before continuing his ascent. I smiled and turned back to the door, scuttling out and into the door of the black vehicle we arrived in just as I heard Sherlock running down the stairs, looking for the man that he bumped into.

**Sherlock**

When I opened the door to the flat, I breathed in the warm air and sighed. The smell of cookies wafted through the air, but that was not of my attention. I didn't even initially plan to come home to this flat until I caught the criminal amateur behind this, but I couldn't exactly run around without some of my supplies, not to mention John as well. I was slightly annoyed at how he punched me for not being able to see emotion, but how was I supposed to know exactly? Emotion was not in my code when I grew up, he of all people should assume that by now considering the things he has seen and learned, but I suppose not.

Sometimes I wish I could be some type of advanced mechanism, something that couldn't feel or respond to external stimuli. Empathy, concern, worry, _pain_ would all be dispersed around me as nothing more than lights that reflected off my metal casket. I wouldn't be clouded by emotions when they are unwanted. Such an instance was like now, with what Molly lectured me for earlier.

The mere thought of her retaliating to my actions was a slight disadvantage, but nonetheless, I was still utterly emotionless when she spoke to me. Her our-of-character oration was nothing to be too fond of. I absorbed it for further analysis. It was something I hadn't expected or truly thought of until brought of. It was like a piece of paper flying around my head, but my searching hands never legitimately grasping it. At least, not until now.

What Molly had said came back to me, it was brief and pointless like her normal responses, but it stood out among the rest.

_"Molly... You've been crying."_

_Molly reached up at rubbed her eyes briefly before looking at me again, a wry smile on her features, "No. Don't be silly. You should be ignoring this you know," she added in a hollow whisper to herself, "like you do everything else that doesn't pertain to you."_

_I blinked, "Excuse me?"_

_The words on her lips were not a hit to the gut as most people would assume, but they were mildly discerning at most. Something that tapped my consciousness into paying attention to the small voice I vaguely heard._

_Her brown eyes were red and raw around the edges, showing worse for wear. I let no change of emotion fall onto my eyes or mouth as I observed this. Her wet cheeks and her coarse bottom lip, bitten from nervousness and anxiety. Strands of light brown hair fell into her eyes as she constantly blew them out of the way. She was severely upset before. I'd imagine if she wore make-up like the other insecure females, it would be running down her face dramatically._

_As those same auburn brown eyes fell on me, they fell, hiding whatever was in them. I didn't need eyes to see into what people were feeling, or thinking. It was just another method to aid in my theories and deductions. For the other sources, I could just glance at her body language. She was curled in, a little scared, and her hands were constantly rubbing together at the thumbs, reddening the pads at the phalanges softly. Her mouth opened and closed. She wanted to say something. Well, then this was pointless. If she wanted to say something, then she should come out right and say it._

_"Well? What is it Molly?" My voice was slightly tinged with a louder adjective and frustration as she continued to look at me. What was so awful in her mind that she couldn't decide whether to say it or not? It's not like I will care too much anyways with the case on my mind as well as John's actions and reactions._

_She seemed to realize this as she nodded her head affirmatively, still avoiding my eyes a little. A brief smile popped on her features. So she concluded something, well, that's a supposed victory to her easily-appeased mind. _

_I was so in thought of deducing her actions that I didn't notice the small sound emanating from her small mouth, free of the make-up she tried to appeal to me that one day._

_She chuckled and stood, handing me another towel to wipe the blood from my face. Her eyes were sad, but the rest of her face was a tad brighter. I briefly said my thanks and gave her the dirtied one as a swap. She took the bloodied towel away, throwing it in the bin before returning to my side again. She relaxed beside me, but not close enough to be making direct contact I took notice. She brought her knees to her chest. Laying her chin in the top of her jean-covered knees, she stared out in front of her, mumbling more to herself than I, but of course I heard her nonetheless._

_"You see what you want to see, what is relevant to you. I've noticed this you know. I may be your little laboratory helper, but I'm a little observant. That's why I got the job. Nonetheless, I... I was hoping that perhaps in time you would act differently to me, think differently of me, but I see I was wrong. You see me as an acquaintance at most, don't you? But you see John, already three days in, as a friend."_

_I mused it over, nodding, "Yes. I don't see though, I observe. I observe what is germane to my cases, if that's what you mean."_

_Molly shook her head, a small giggle escaping her lips. It was light, almost mocking in a way. It was contradictory to her frown minutes ago. To myself, it was a drastic change. So drastic in fact that I found myself confused. What was funny about what I just said? As far as I knew, it was completely logical and not humorous in the slightest of ways._

_"You need to learn to multitask Sherlock. Observe when it comes to your cases and just when you absolutely need it, but see when it comes to people. People, like me or John, are only human you know, we don't need observations. Sight is what you need when it comes to this. When it comes to emotions, no deductions are needed for some, or never truly a necessity, but just noticing something is wrong is good enough."_

_'Seeing when it comes to people? Observing when it comes to cases?' I mulled over, 'Shouldn't I just do one full time as to not bother learning both. Seeing is never useful when information is needed, so what is so relevant about the topic?'_

_"What are you saying?" I eyed her, a little confused, but understanding the most of what she was saying. Or, at least, I made it seem so. I didn't want to appear an idiot now of all times._

_"That you need to learn to see people as people and not evidence to your constant, amazing mind. That's why you didn't notice me... that's why John did. He noticed it immediately even though it was only his first time meeting me. He_ sees _people unlike you who only_ observes _people," she shrugged with a smile and stood up once more, dusting her lab coat, "You two are a good team I'll admit. I just wish..." She let the word roll off quietly, catching what she was about to say. This only intrigued my interest slightly._

_"Wish what?" I stood up as well, wiping my hands with the towel she handed me._

_She thought for a moment before scurrying back to her work bench, "nothing! Nothing at all, um... what would you like for me to do? John appears to have started the scope for you, but I don't think he gathered much..."_

_Pointless rambling came out of her mouth once more, none of that seeing and observing prattle. She was flustered a light pink, but was the same as usual. Her mind was elsewhere, probably thinking of the subject she almost gave away. Such a problematic theory to her must be something atrocious if she has been colored so by such a thing as thinking it. How odd. I'll never understand emotion like this._

_She kept trying to get my attention on the white grains and after a while of idle thought, I conceded, trailing back to the microscope with hollow fingers lightly turning each dial into place. The invisible puppet strings pulled every joint of my hands to the petri dish, but my thoughts were on something else; rather, someone else. A certain man that now leaves a blossoming bruise on the side of my face and has currently stormed out._

_"Molly, what did you and John speak of? Judging by your obvious flinching of the mention and the sudden stiffness, it was in relation to myself. Though, I suppose, who else would it be about since this whole cascade revolved around me? Exactly. What did he do, or more specifically, what did he say?"_

_She peered over at my, softly chirping to the vials in front of her,"H-He asked why I was crying, you know, the normal, dull stuff that you don't like," she smiled and fidgeted with the small corks between her fingers,"but nothing more. He sang to me to help me calm down."_

_"He sang to you?" I prodded, interest piqued._

_Shuffling from foot to foot, she nodded, "Y-Yes. He's like you I think when it comes to comfort, though you did mention he was a soldier in the morgue right? He's kind of awkward with the normal affections, so he pulled out his guitar and played a song. It was... beautiful." _

_My eyes widened ever so slightly and the genuine smile on her face before receding back to the microscope,"I see. That is all Molly. Thank you."_

_Like a disturbed bird, her feathers began to furrow aimlessly, "E-Eh? Um, no problem! Er... I mean, do you want a coffee? Two sugars-"_

_"-black, yes. I will be observing these while you're gone."_

_With that, she scurried out. I watched her leave and as the last final swing of the door came to a halt, I felt the sigh hidden so carefully leave my lips. _

_I could tell she was trying to change the subject, and for once, I didn't try to change it back. My mind was still trying to understand everything that had occurred in those brief __five minutes._

It was a problem that I couldn't unravel immediately, and _that_ itself was irritating. I couldn't understand, no that's not the right word. I understand emotions well-enough. They were useless in deductions and crime solving. When has such a flaw become a dependability? The only use was getting in the way of the real problem. I suppose the right way to word it was that I didn't _possess_ _the ability_ to discern one set of emotions to another, and at that, to any relevance to my own situation.

What Molly had said was that I needed to relay emotions more, which was utterly ludicrous. I grew up with little to no influence of the sort and I have turned out completely _fine_ as I recall.

Sighing, I walk up the seventeen stairs, half-seeing what was in front of me. I was so concentrated in my mind palace that I didn't see the man that ran into me. Turning my head to his own, I took sight of his eyes. They were gleeful, expecting. By the way his body language was situated, he did it on purpose. I was in no way at fault. He did something to infuriate me probably. If that is so, he will be disappointed greatly by how much I can take.

I nodded to the hooded, grinning man and continued my way up, taking note on his steps. They were light, prancing even. Ah, I see. He performed an act that he was highly proud of, apparently one that may be slightly troublesome on my part. I chuckled softly at the notion of a little discomfort on my part.

He definitely wasn't an ordinary man. He was a mysterious sort. Still too dull for my mind to develop further examination, but interesting enough for it to vaguely comprehend his form.

When I reached the top, I took notice immediately the door being open a crack. I narrowed my eyes. I observed the lock briefly. It was pick-locked, probably by the man that recently passed by. How troublesome. Mrs. Hudson is going to scold me later for this, but that wasn't of my mind at the moment. No, it was the faint trace of blood drops on the floorboards in front of the door. It was a bright crimson puddle and as I rotated to look behind me, I noticed a trail of the same crimson. A body?

I could feel a slight smile start curving my lips, but refrained from making it too obvious at the current moment. No, don't get side-tracked. You will miss something then. Shaking my head and organizing my thoughts so the important ones were accessible, I gently nudged the door forward, taking note on the speckles of crimson on the knob.

I didn't push open the door all the way since that would be rather precarious. Instead, it was only pressured maybe a few inches as I peered in. There was the same blood trail I had noticed earlier, but the drops were much heavier than before. They stopped when they opened this door, taking in their surroundings. From the brief examination, the cluttered mess was noted and they decided not to chance the piles of books and other items I have. The mark wasn't as large as the one outside thus meaning they didn't hesitate nearly as long, knowing they had a time constraint on them, that being my arrival.

When I pushed the door all the way open and trudged in, the scent hit me slightly.

I thinned my lips. It was only blood. Not rotting flesh or even a decomposing organ. It was a metallic scent, not a dead one. I did know the difference by now.

I walked around the corner of the doorway and froze.

On the floor, bleeding and cut up, was John. His arms were shredded and his chest... his chest was practically etched with malice. Ankles and wrists were greatly bruised, his wrists crusted with dried blood. His shirt was cut up down the middle, but stuck to his chest with his bleeding skin. He was pale as a ghost. I didn't even see his chest rise and fall.

Without thinking twice, I ran out the door. That was why the man was grinning. That was why he held that little bounce in his step! His purposeful nudge, his stiff assistant at his side, his utterly gleeful eyes. How could I be _stupid_, so _unobservant_! He held psychopath written all over his features and I sensed _nothing_, blinded by my own problems.

I was too late. By the time I walked out of the front door, all I could see was a black cab speeding off with nothing but a soft purr behind it. I knew it was worthless to trace the cabbie. Knowing the man, he planned this out fully and thoroughly. He wasn't going to let the cab live, unless that is, he is part of the mans group.

Groaning loudly, I tugged on my hair. I was _so close._ I could have him in my clutches right now, being interrogated by my own standards and repaying him for the damage he possibly caused. Had my older brother been here, he would be laughing at me, mocking me even. Knowing him, he probably already is. He probably saw the whole murder with his many eyes. By now, he definitely would have the name of the men that dissected John.

_John._

Dashing back inside and up the stairs, I take a swift left turn into the flat and right in front of John. I was out of breath slightly, but I still was able to notice the simple, more important facts. There was only one that appeared like a bright stop light. The little tinge of reality that realized his chest was not doing any sort of elevation. It was completely, utterly still.

_He isn't breathing_ I thought to myself. I felt the tinge of emotion enter my thoughts and briskly brushed it aside. No time. Certainly no time now if I need to save my new followers life.

I rushed to his side, fluttering my fingers to feel his pulse. His throat and his wrist. Both potential pulse signalers. Placing it on his wrist, I felt none. I could feel my throat constrict, but forced the emotion down. I have only known him for three days. No time to get emotional or to get to know him. No attachment should have been made. In fact, I shouldn't be acting as shaky as I feel right now. This is utterly ludicrous. I shouldn't be showing any emotion over a stranger.

Though this said stranger has made me realize a few things in 3 days that nobody else really has in years now that I consider the thought.

Leaning my head down to his chest, I heard nothing. Not a heart beat nor a soft thump. It was silent, but his chest was warm. His heart recently stopped no less than 10 minutes ago. He was trying to remain alive, but the blood-loss was what effectively caused his heart to cease it's involuntary movement. Feeling his fingertips, cold as if frost-bitten, I felt the theory being more solidly built. I need to cover these cuts before I try any sort of reviving or else he will bleed out once more.

Grumbling lowly, I pulled off my scarf and unraveled it from its twisted form. I used this to wrap the more serious injury of all of his torture: his chest. It was scratched all over the place, but I didn't understand the markings as I covered them tightly with my scarf. Using a shirt I had lying around (probably his old rags), I rip it into strips and securely fasten it around his arms. There. That should sustain until any sort of medics come.

I could feel the emotions come back slightly and I grimaced. It has been a while now since he has stilled and the chance of bringing him back is growing ever so slimmer as I fight with my internal relationship with my own heart and brain.

I push them back into a solid, steel door. No. Emotions stay back. Nobody wants you and if anybody did, it certainly was not me. What had I said to John earlier the first day we met? All lives are lost. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. My stupid older brother told me that a long time ago, and as much as I hate him, it's still relevant now. If I want to save him, I can't be caring or it will block the things I need to do.

With that, I lock the emotions in a tight steel room, throwing the key away in a dark well of all my purged information. Now to get onto the task at hand.

Placing my hands on John's chest, I almost cringed at the puckered skin under my skin, the muscle underneath. It was started to become brittle on the edges that were more exposed to air. It was only the parts that weren't covered by the scarf, but nonetheless, it wasn't the best feeling to be present on my pressuring finger tips. Yes, I wanted to recoil, but I didn't. I remained emotionless, a mask of certainty, as I pushed onto his chest in a consistent pattern.

_1... 2... 3..._

I leaned in to his chest and heard nothing. Feeling a light sheen of worry cross my features, I ignored it and tried again.

_1... 2... 3..._

Once again, not a sound. Stopping for only an instant, I go to my mind palace and pull out the book that explained CPR. This was certainly not the case since most require water, but an alteration can be made. I scanned the short pages I contained of the precaution before nodding. Mentally closing the book once I gathered the information, I go back to pressing on John's chest and after no sound once more, leaned in, using my bloodied fingers to pry open John's mouth. Tilting my head down, I took a deep breath and collided my lips to his, pushing the air into his lungs before moving away and pushing his chest again.

_1... 2... 3..._

I could hear loud footsteps coming up the stairs and was thankful when Lestrade appeared. He was out of breath and a manila file was in his clutches, the contents almost spilling to the carmine stippled floor. He smiled at me before gazing in horror at John's stilled body. The folder he was holding, slipped between his fingers and to the ground with a soft thump.

_1... 2... 3..._

"What happened?" He was looking at me but I shook my head vigorously.

"I haven't the slightest idea. I leave him alone for a few hours at most and upon reaching the flat I found him like this. I've been performing CPR for the past minute, but I can't get him to breath," I eyed him when he continued to stand there, dumbfounded. And he wonders why the rest of his poor excuse of a team can never get anything done when a obvious level 1 case is handed to them? _Bloody_ lot of idiots they all were, but I will restrain from using my breath on the reminder.

Instead, I decided to use the said wasted breath to remind the DI of his duties, well, of his partial ones,"Unless you plan to stand there while John dies, I'd advise you to start calling the ambulance. Standing there like a comatose imbecile will only prove in wasting this lovely metallic air we are currently making more potent as the time wears on. John's heart isn't beating and even if I do get it to perform such, I can't keep it that way without medical attention. I'm a high-functioning sociopath, Lestrade, not a medical specialist." I turned back to look at the stiffening, pale form of John Watson and continued to do the same repetitive movements. Never have I been so confident in saving a man's life, certainly not a man that has recently been brought to my attention like this one.

_1... 2... 3..._

I could sense the deer caught in headlights look on the inspectors face, but ignored it briefly. Hopefully he will understand what he has to do. I really would rather not waste my breathing on repeating myself. Breathing in itself was already boring enough.

Lestrade fumbled in his jacket before pulling out his phone and dialing the hospital. Good. He walked out of the room, probably to ignore the pitiful sight before him. His shuffling feet resounding through the halls and into my flat and, for the moment, I was glad that Mrs. Hudson was not home. Who knows what could have happened had she been here with the criminal at hand?

_1... 2... 3..._

I kept at the motions I was performing on John's chest as well as the mouth-to-mouth. My mouth was beginning to absorb the metallic taste of blood, _John's blood_, I reminded myself. He wasn't showing any signs of life, but I'm sure I was wearing most of it on my white button-up shirt and trousers. Thumb marks were printed into some of the less-dried patches of blood from my indentions of resuscitation. He was smothered in my attempts of bringing him back to life, but none of them actually did. Nonetheless, I was a stubborn man, unfaltering until taken away, and kept at the action. I was not deterred in the slightest.

1... 2... 3...

It paid off eventually.

After the eighth time (I silently kept count in my head, fully aware that after so many times it was pointless.), I heard him cough and moved away just in time for him to rotate his head to the side and vomit an abundant amount of blood onto the floor. Perhaps in any other situation I'd mock the doctor, but I knew this wasn't the time nor the place. As mentioned before, I didn't necessarily specialize in medics, but the amount of blood he managed to spew was not what he needed to give up at that moment judging the amount he _already lost_. At this point, a blood transfusion will be necessary and I doubt he will have any money to pay for such.

John's eyes looked over at me and squinted. They were still dead and lacking color, but I could see the faint traces of blue reaching into the orbs once more. I could feel the sigh of relief threaten to leave my lips, but I held it back with trained force.

"I... Sher... lock...?" After he mumbled those words, I saw the faint light become dimmer in his eyes. He was trying to stay focused, but he was losing the battle.

Reaching over, I placed my hands on either side of his face and brought it back to face my own. His eyes were distant and half-closed. I felt him flinch from my touch, but thought nothing of it. He was tortured, recoiling from contact was normal.

"John? Can you hear me?"

He stared at me... but he wasn't looking at me. I knew that look. I was told that I often got that look when I receded away. That look when I hid in the darkest corridors of my mind palace. I only knew John for three days, about to be four, but I knew I didn't want him being there.

"Are you all right?"

Again, no response. It was like he was a machine, except his parts were missing. He was still breathing, albeit faintly, but it looked like the mechanism to speak was gone. He mouthed words to me, trying to put sound behind them, but only mumbling silence. His mind was falling away from reality, where he got hurt, to his mind where it was safe.

Shaking him, I tried to get his attention. He only flinched in response and tensed up. He was easily startled I could tell, and he seems to be having a difficulty concentrating. I linked this to PTSD, or at least, a more severe form judging by his past in the army.

"Sherlock, the medics-" Lestrade paused when he saw John, breathing and eyes open,"John? Thank the stars- how are you mate? Can you move? Anything broken?"

The almost lifeless blue eyes slid over to Lestrade, mentally searching through the mental fog to remember him. This was not good for him. He was going to strain himself and if he stresses too much, his pulse will quicken, and if that occurs, more blood will be pumped through his raw veins. That will most certainly cause the blood loss to be the eternal death of him and no amount of CPR can bring him back from that.

I backed away from John's lying body. It was the body only, the casket. His mind was elsewhere, diminished.

"He isn't there. Well, he is, but he can't focus, at least not with his blurring mind hiding everything. Lestrade, what do you do when somebody loses focus? I rarely ever perform actions of such to take one out of that state, but I believe now calls for the sort does it not?"

Lestrade nodded, concern laced in his wrinkled features, "Try ice water, that normally does the trick."

I waved him off, "Already did that before, didn't work."

He stared at me, flabbergasted by my response, "when did you-!"

"That's besides the point Lestrade," I enforced, "What else is there?"

Grumbling incoherently, I saw him think it over for a moment too long for my comfort, "I wouldn't suggest this on him, considering his physical state and all, but maybe a punch, pinch, or a slap? Something strong and retaliating to his numbness. That will get rid of it."

I declined my head slightly in affirmation, "That should work. I suppose I will go from the least painful to the most, though I highly doubt he can tell the difference at the moment."

His body was lying there, almost like dead weight. I knew this was going to do nothing, but if I didn't try, Lestrade would probably make me go to a case with Anderson for my ignorance. That, and I suppose the less painful method _could_ work. Under normal circumstances, I suppose not, but this isn't a normal circumstance and John Watson certainly was not an ordinary man from the things and people he has seen.

The pinch didn't work. Looking up at Lestrade, I saw him nibbling on his bottom lip. He was caught in a difficult decision. He didn't know whether to wait for the medics to help John, or to let me to as I was about to, "Are you sure Sherlock? I mean, whoever the bloke was that did it to him was, he did leave a number on the man. Would punching him, or even hitting him, help him? He already flinches from what I saw. PTSD?"

I sighed and rolled my eyes at his petty worries, "Oh please Lestrade. He already has PTSD. In fact, it is one of the minor reasons he doesn't return home. The frown lines in his face, the minor trembling when his Afghanistan days were brought up, and the way his voice significantly faltered indicates such. He didn't leave the war zone unscathed, as little to none do. Now, Lestrade, is that all you are worried about? I would like to know before I try to _help_ John as I so assure you I am trying to do."

His mouth popped open like a codfish for a moment before closing, amazement being hidden behind slight annoyance and the same worry, "No. That was all. Just... just don't frighten him too much Sherlock. He isn't like you."

I frowned, "I know that."

He tilted his head to the side, "Do you?"

Glaring, I nodded, "Yes. I do. Is that all?"

Lestrade eyed me for a moment before giving a faint nod of his own, "Yes. The medics should be here any minute now so you don't have a lot of time."

I expected him to leave, but he stood there as if he was a parent watching over his troublemaker son. How annoying.

Nonetheless, I raised my arm to where my hand was perhaps a foot away in distance from the side of John's face. Without blinking, I slapped him, feeling the familiar red sting on my palms and finger tips as they made contact with his flesh.

At first, there was nothing, but slowly, I saw recognition fill John's face and the tension in the air lightened from its previous state.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" He slurred.

The man chuckled, "You can just call me Greg, mate. How are you feeling?"

John grimaced, "Like I have been thrown in the middle of London traffic and ran over during lunch hour, but nothing worse than I have felt before." I could tell from the vacant look in John's eyes that he was still far away, a boat tied to a dock on a single thread. His body was on "red alert", even in my arms, and I could feel some irritability seep through his words as he spoke to the rhetorical question. This only added to my file of post-traumatic stress disorder for the doctor. Of course Lestrade didn't notice it.

Lestrade nodded understandably, but I was not satisfied.

"Who took you?" I asked.

"What?" Lack of concentration, detachment, more facts. I observed this quietly, compiling the list.

"Who kidnapped you, John?" I could feel my patience wearing thin, but kept the facade up. He just woke up, in a sense, he was still slow.

"I... I can't remember. I don't think he ever mentioned his name... He just spoke to me... He had a man with him, a man with a knife. Bloody sharp that thing was, but he was a determined bloke," he pondered something in his head for a moment before realization hit, "Ah. Sherlock, check my right pocket will you? I... can't seem to do it myself with the amount of blood loss I have sustained, but there should be an envelope for you. He slipped it in before I went unconscious."

I did as instructed, quietly noting his inability to remember the most important aspects of his trauma, and pulled out a perfectly white, crisp letter. It was not even speckled in red. It was heavy and judging by the form and the way my fingers ran over every contour, it was a phone. I mentally weighed the phone, running my fingers to push its surface in every which direction. It slid slightly to a keyboard and due to the fact that the certain letters were pressed more than others, it was Johns. Nodding to myself, I ignored the questioning look of Lestrade and John as I observed the letter in its entirety. The writing indicates a fine-point pen, probably one of the more high-end style. Asian-origins. The letter was nothing more than something you can buy at your local markets. How dull. The culprit could have at least made this more interesting than it was.

"Sherlock?"

"Shush John. You shouldn't be speaking if I am correct. That would only speed up your blood flow with the stress and your condition certainly does not call for that," I saw John pout with a glare at me as he knew I was correct, "Besides, the doctors are already here."

"Wha-!" He tried to raise his voice, but it only got above a whisper just barely, refusing an further. He decided to cease and tried to focus, enforcing a glare at me. I waved him off and stood, pointedly looking at the door as four medics walked in, their hospital rags distasteful and utterly pointing to their specialty as EMT's.

"Don't bother looking for any injuries doctors. I can easily list them off. To begin, his ribs are broken, probably three or four of the true ribs to be exact, along with the left leg. His ankle is sprained and he has several lacerations along his arms and chest that need instantaneous medical attention compared to the improvisational handiwork I did," as the doctors stared like carp at my list of injuries, I turned to Lestrade, a smirk laced through my features.

I was about to speak to him when I felt a tug on my shirt sleeve. Turning to the left of me, I noticed John already in a gurney, being lifted away to the ambulance in stand-by outside. That was fairly quick for complete fools, but the praise didn't last long as I noticed the way John flinched in pain at the stiff, careless movements they made. They didn't trust my judgment. What a shame. The ride for John Watson to the hospital was going to be a painful one, he might be slightly unconscious once he gets there with the amount of blood he will certainly lose.

"Yes John? What is it?" I murmured, observing as his eyes focused and unfocused constantly.

"I... Please, find whomever this twisted psychopath was. I know for a fact you can do it, that is, if you haven't already."

My smirk broadened at his praise, "Oh? Actually, I haven't deducted much yet with you injured and nearly dead. It would be helpful with a name though you know considering I could then ask for some... unwanted guidance in this." The ending of my response with full of resentment and a lacking of depreciation. I would hate to deal with him, especially now, since he would be unbearably difficult to understand with him just being released temporarily from work. How miserable.

John's eyebrows furrowed, "Stop thinking Sherlock. I can just _tell_ when your mind is on a roll and it's giving me a headache," my eyebrows rose but he continued, "But... his name... I.. believe it was.. s-something like..."

At that moment, the paramedics began to take John away and I was left there hanging on his word. Without a moments hesitation, I began following John's side. I took hold of one of the side railings of the gurney, the other hand moving recklessly at my side in the pending curiosity and excitement that ran through my veins.

"Sir, we have to take him to the hospital, he's losing consciousness," one interjected.

"He would be more coherent if he wasn't losing as much blood with your precarious lot," I replied harshly before turning to John, "His name? John, I need his name!"

"His name..." John mumbled, stare becoming half-lidded. No. No no no. I _have_ to know.

"Sir..." another warned as we reached the blinking lights of the ambulance. The other two paramedics were giving me the same glare, but I ignored them.

"John..." I murmured next to him, staring at him intensely but knowing he wasn't seeing any of it.

"M...Moriarty. It was Moriarty."

_Moriarty._

Mentally flipping through my library of people and criminals, I pulled out Moriarty's folder. Ah, he was the supposed man in charge of miss Alice's murder... interesting.

"Thank you John," I whispered as I let him go. Within the next five seconds, he was in the ambulance and off the St. Bart's Hospital.

I reached in my pocket and pulled out the white envelope once more. The edges were slightly crinkled where the pocket was too small to fit it, but that wasn't of my adamant concern. No, I was far more curious as to what was inside the envelope than the carrier in which it was presented. I carefully took a hold of the edge of the envelope, hooking my index finger in to gradually rip it open. Once done so, I turned the envelope upside down and watched as a small phone fell into my palms. It was John's phone, but that wasn't what caught my attention. It was the image that was presented on the phone itself.

Even though the phone's screen was small, I was still able to take notice in the minuscule details. First of all, the image adduced that it a carefully drawn image of the outline of an apple. Inside the said apple, was a word that spelled out "I O U". Due to the condensation in the vehicle, it was done and created today in the shelter of a warm vehicle, probably to pass time. The thickness of the lines point to a male, probably early thirties to late. He is precise and takes care in planning judging by his meticulous lines and accuracy to the words and figure. The image is too big for this phone so it was taken on another one, probably his or his accomplices.

A smile broke on my face for a moment before receding back to a bored facade. This man is clever, so very clever, but he is also mischievous. He enjoys torment and provoking and even an idiot could tell that is point of interest was on me. How intriguing.

I heard Lestrade's heavy footsteps hit the pavement behind me and I turned, a bright smile on my lips. It wasn't a happy smile, more like a intrigued one, one that was ready to go catch a fish that was swimming in a pond for far too long.

"What is with that smile of yours Sherlock?" Lestrade questioned slightly though the light prick of curiosity overwhelmed the annoyance of the maturity of my smile.

"I... need to go consult myself with a few sources. I believe I know who this supposed criminal is," I began to walk when a hand landed on my arm, hot and sweaty - Nervous, adrenaline rush probably, annoyed, slightly angered, worried, concerned.

"What about John? He is your friend isn't he?"

"I don't have _friends_," I scoffed, retrieving my arm.

Lestrade eyed me briefly, a flicker of hurt, before he spoke once more, "Well, he will probably be as close to one as you may get mate. Are you going to the hospital to wait for him to get better or won't you?"

I could sense that there was no right answer and that in its right annoyed me terribly, "I... I can't go see him Lestrade. If I were to go to him like a lost puppy awaiting for his master to wake up, in which I will not, then this case will be left to your incompetent excuse of a Yard and that would only serve in letting the criminal escape. Now, unless you want John to worry constantly over whether the slayer was behind his back every second of every waking hour of his life, let me do what I am best at. I will go find this man and if... no, when I do, I will make sure he knows what John is going through."

The man that stood before me shook his head and smiled slightly, "You never do change do you? Whatever. Go chase that bloody psychopath and do John some justice, eh? I suppose you want me to watch over him?"

I nodded, "At least you caught on to something. Also," I smirked as I saw him peer at me, his hand half raised to hail a cab, "It takes a 'psychopath' to know one."

* * *

><p><em>Once again, I apologize for the choppiness and utterly terribly quality of this chapter. My mind was seeing doubles half the time so I was trying to work through my fever and everything because I'm a stubborn child who can't sit still or sleep peacefully like every other bloody child during sickness. No, I did the opposite and I suppose the turn out was this, and some highlighter-blacklight drawings on my wall.<em>

_I apologize for any OOC in this... I will make the next chapter better, I promise! _

_But, oh my God. I enjoy writing the...well, actually there is no point in calling it the Unknown POV since you readers have probably deducted that it was Moriarty. Nonetheless, he is so much fun to write! I had the best time and the most giggles writing his and it was thanks to his little insert at the beginning that I even got started on this. God, I love him haha~_

_Oh, next chapter? Expect this week for sure. I have half of it typed already and I will give you a hint as to how changed John will be after this. Severe PTSD. That kind of hints as too just how bad the torture was without resorting to... that. Anyways, I have researched the topic a lot, too much honestly, enough for a lifetime, but I've been taking my time writing his POV so it somewhat fits the bill without making him appear depressed or suicidal. I will not write a suicide until a certain part you guys... Writing those are the hardest for me to do because my best friend committed it and I could never write it the same afterward._

_That's it! Thank you for reading! Review/critique with whatever you wish._

_Ciao~_


	8. Chapter 8

_First of all, let me say, yet again, that I apologize for my hiatus. I know that I personally go mad over amazing fanfics that have not been updated in weeks for a time so doing such is practically absurd. Of course, that isn't to say this is a good fanfiction, because it isn't._

_Now for another assertion before I leave you lovely readers to view this obscured jumble of characters that probably mangle the English language. I am not proud of this chapter. It is my longest with 11500 words without this intro, but I do not like how it flows. It seems rushed to be honest and I am tempted to throw it in my recycling bin. Thanks to my "John", that didn't happen. Apparently this chapter holds something that is likable though I cannot fathom what._

_Oh! I should have the St. Patrick's Day (belated by a lot) finally up tomorrow.. er, today. It just turned midnight where I live, but expect it today perhaps after 5 pm in my time since I have school and all that nonsensical rubbish._

_Without further ramblings, I leave you to read this. I again apologize for the sloppiness of this chapter. It was written on my phone when Spring Break was being a pain in the arse to be truthful. The next chapter will be better I promise. Let's hope I can keep this one._

_Disclaimer: Do not own Sherlock because if I did, Johnlock would be canon; the end._

* * *

><p><strong>John<strong>  
><em>God I hate this.<em>

When I opened my eyes, I knew what I was going to see. I have been in enough accidents, survived enough, to know that I was going to be in a hospital room. The walls would be bleached white and the tile the same ugly color. A window would be next to me, probably on the left since that was the usual spot, and it would be either shining light or droning on darkness, depending on the time of day. My sheets below me would crinkle from the paper thin matting they used and the hospital gown they strapped on me would start to itch unbearably. I sensed that my heart beat would rise considerably from the sensory overload before falling back to normal standards.

The faint beeping beside me only confirmed the understanding of my situation. The extended veins attached to my arms and body began to tug mercilessly as I began to stir. As the tugging seemed to prove no effect on my event, I decided to stop, lying still on the uncomfortable mat below me.

I tried to think of what happened, what had caused me to enter this cursed place, but every time I tried to recover the memory, I could feel my consciousness recede to darkness; not that I blame it of course. I... didn't want to remember that. I have withstood much in the war... but that was something different, more profound in terms of abdicating my rights of control.

I still shouldn't have been affected by the torture so. I shouldn't have. I could feel the chuckle, humorless and hollow, filter through my throat, but it never escaped my lips. No, those remained sealed as I slowly fell back to my mind.

When Sherlock first arose me from my darkened slumber, I thought my mind was the safest place for me. It was away from the reality that hurt me, and scarred me, more than the war I endured. I was wrong though, terribly so. My mind was not a sound one, far from it in fact. It wasn't my utopia, no, it was my prison. It ridiculed my actions and decisions. When I had cried and screamed from the torture, it called me weak. When I finally broke from the torture and was nothing more than a husk for a few minutes, it told me that I was to blame. If I had been stronger than I would have been able to go through all of this with a stoic face...and it was right.

I could hear my heart beat rise abruptly at the thought of my trauma and that ultimately was what brought me out of my haze, the annoying beeping. I probably should have been groaning, showing some signs of life, but to be honest, I didn't know which life I'd rather be in. The enduring life of reminders or the eternity of prolonging echoes and broken reflections that only I can see.

I realized quickly that I needed to discover this quickly, whether I should hide the effects of the torture or whether I should make it known. It didn't take long for me to discover the less painful choice, at least, less painful for others.

I will have to hide this and act like nothing happened. I will have to place yet another mask of certain health like I did when I returned from Afghanistan. I sighed quietly to the hospital room, exhausted despite the amount of sleep I have probably gotten from the antibiotics.

I hate hospitals. Despite being a doctor and being raised around such, I hate these. They smell of antibiotics and hand soap that has been scrubbed too thoroughly into every crevice and corridor. The water would hold a metallic taste and the food... not even counted as such considering we were all bloody doctors and not some cooking masters from Paris. This is going to be horrible.

Hopefully, it wouldn't get any worse.

Ha, yeah right. Since when am I ever that lucky?

I opened my eyes and felt the light bore down into the orbs immediately. Hissing at the painful impact, I closed them and turned my head to avoid direct contact again. That was stupid, revealing my eyes to the dreadful light so quickly. Ugh, don't do that again, definitely not. It wasn't as bad as a hangover, but fairly close.

After the pulsing in my head and eyes receded considerably, I peeked my eyes open slightly, noticing first hand that a man was sitting in a chair farthest from my bed. My eyes widened a little more as I took in his form. My body went into red alert immediately and it took all my willpower to stop it.

He was formal. A tailored suit that covered his figure and hid it as well. He had an umbrella to his side though one of his hands rested on its handle, every so often rubbing his thumb over the metal curvature. He held no expression to my hazy knowledge, but I could just imagine the gears in his head churning constantly. He would have just been another annoying stranger, but I began to notice a few straggling facts shooting into the fog known as my mind. His eyes followed me with the same observing eyes that I recognized immediately. As soon as I noticed that, I realized a few other resemblances. The smirk that played across his lips, the way his eyes narrowed as they discovered something they liked, the constant glare that just shouted I-Am-Smarter-Than-All-Of-You-By-Far, it was all there. I could see his smirk turning into more of a distinguished grin as he saw that I realized this.

"Ah, doctor Watson, I suppose you have come to realize who I am, or at least, whom I resemble in your taste?" His voice was like satin-smooth and never tripping over a single syllable. Every word was well versed and left you hanging. I could feel my eyes narrow. I never liked those with a sly tongue, always got me or others in trouble eventually. I could just sense that he was of no exception. Just another bloke that would threaten me, or at least, make me rather uncomfortable or depressed.

"Oh please. I'm certainly not here to cause any more harm to you. I'm merely here to offer you a... preposition I suppose you could say. Would you care to listen?"

He didn't give me a chance to reply and I didn't give a care to answer. He held that idiosyncrasy as well, not caring what you said because what he said was utterly final and that was that.

"I would assume that you are under the wing of a certain... individual? A Sherlock Holmes?"

I nodded slowly, "Yes..." I didn't like him at all, just the way he eyed me like I was a mysterious experiment he wanted to dissect to every nerve and cell. I could feel my breathing slightly speed up as I remembered the same glint on the inflicter of my trauma and closed my eyes briefly, stabilizing my breaths to strained amounts. I did not want the man to know of my symptoms. He was the last man right now.

He eyed my struggle with amusement and a raised brow as he continued to speak, his satin smooth voice turning over to feel rough in my ears.

"Why is that John? Do you think that a man like him can relinquish you of your sins? The same ones that you committed in Afghanistan?"

I felt my teeth clenched, "How do you know about Afghanistan?"

A smirk, "I have my sources, but that is besides the point. Since I can't contact you otherwise, this will be the only time I will be able to speak to you currently. I am a busy man with my work."

"I really don't know you," I spoke slowly, watching him, "So why should you want to contact me in the first place? I have known you for merely a minute or two and I already don't want to converse with you anymore."

He rolled his eyes and scoffed at me like it was obvious, "I suppose I can blame the medication for your lack of brain movement at this time, but then again, you are rather plain so I can also disfavor the fact of your boring mind. Nonetheless, I can spare a quip to help you along," he paused for a moment to let it sink in before continuing, "You are in associations with Sherlock Holmes. You can't lie to me John. I have eyes all over London I presume one could say. Even so, one must learn to be discreet when trying to avoid the attention of Sherlock Holmes. Since he is about, chasing the same individual that I wanted him to capture years ago, it appears that a window has opened, hence this visit."

I chuckled humorlessly, falling on my back once more and staring at the ceiling, "Oh lucky me." I could feel my pretense falling back into place and sighed as my personality came easy to me. About damn time.

"I fail to find the humor in this situation," he murmured, a little miffed, before pulling back his calculating facade, "You... don't appear very frightened of me. Ah, it's your expertise as a soldier, a occupation that poised bravery as a opposition to fear. Bravery, yet another word for foolishness."

My lips tightened into a thin line as I heard this, "No, it's not that."

I saw him smile at me with a response of the repetitive deduction ready on his lips when I interjected, "No, it has nothing to do with me being a soldier, though that is certainly part of it. You just are not that frightening of a man I'm afraid. Quite the opposite. You just seem to hold power on your shoulders that I don't care for."

The man leaned back, his eyes widened a little in curiosity, "Interesting. No wonder Sherlock has taken a liking to you," he thumped his umbrella handle once, as if he remembered something, "Oh, that brings me back to the topic at hand. What is your connection to Sherlock?"

I blinked slowly, observing the contours in the ceiling. I just wanted him to leave, perhaps being vague was the best way to go, "I don't have one. I have only known the man for all but three days. The only actual connection I have is that he saved my life and I owe him. Besides, if you have eyes all over this bloody place, should you not even have to ask me in the first place?"

"Ah, yes, I'm so glad you took note of that. Keep that in mind for your future associations Dr. Watson. As for your connection, from what I have heard, you are already planning on moving into the flat with him, actually, you already did so on the very first night of meeting him. You are already accompanying him to one of his soon to be many crime scenes as well."

"What are you inferring?" I spoke begrudging.

"Oh, nothing. Nothing in the slightest. Minor curiosity I assure."

"You don't seem the type to idly poke for fun in business that you don't belong in. Who are you anyways?"

I saw a proud, but sad smile go through his features, "The closest relationship to a friend that Sherlock could possibly have. "

"And what is that?" I wanted to ask for his name. In all actuality, one like me should have asked for his name, but the little slight mess up of emotion threw me for a loop. Curiosity was going to be the death of me I swear. It almost was the death of me earlier in fact. Another shiver ran violently through my body and I clenched my teeth. The reminders were going to haunt me like a sciamachy, only visible to me in thick shadows.

I was losing my concentration. Shaking my head vigorously, I turn my head to squint at the gentleman that was currently testing my nerves.

He looked up, "An enemy. In his mind, probably his arch-enemy. His theatrics never cease to amuse me."

I rolled my eyes, blinking as the movement caused tears to appear from lack of use, "Arch-enemy? Do those even exist now?"

"Off-topic John," he chided, "You're asking the wrong questions. You should be asking as to what my earlier preposition was."

"Oh, I thought that was whether I should listen to your irritable voice drone on and on on a man that I barely know myself. If not, then do tell because I am so interested."

He frowned at me, "Sarcasm is not a good look on you John."

"Does it look as if I care? What is your silly preposition anyways?" A headache was beginning to bloom behind my eyes from the overwhelming thinking and light filtering through my room along with the annoying beeping besides me. Was there any way I could get them to cut that off? As the stress of the situation took hand, I could feel faint thoughts painting its way across my canvas-like mind in detail. It took only a small amount of power to hold them back... but I could still feel the remnants leaking through like floating scars.

The annoying gentleman looked as if he was having the same issue as I with the headaches, though he did well to hide it. I, on the other hand, felt no need to.

A sigh, "Do you plan to associate with Sherlock Holmes any further? If so, how long can I piece this together for?"

"I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business."

A smirk that all but screamed power, "It could be."

With a look of my own, I blink before replying, "It really couldn't."

His lips went thin fairly quickly at my response, eyes narrowing as well. Standing up, I saw him pull out a slip from behind his coat (a inner pocket perhaps?) and gently place it on the end table beside me, "I want you to keep an eye on him, this should cover for your medical expenses as well might I add. I'm sure you lack the funds being sent home with no money or honor Dr. Watson."

I didn't even glance at the paper, but at the man himself, words failing me for a second before trailing back slowly, "Why should I tell you anything about Sherlock? I don't even know who you are."

He cocked his head to the side, a glimmer of aptitude in his eyes as he read my expression, "You are an army doctor, or would it be more appropriate to say was? Nonetheless, you know to not trust others, in fact, your file says itself that you have trust issues. Why is it that of all people to become intimate with, your trust runs to the man that most run away from?"

I was speechless and he took advantage of that, "When others see him, hear him, they assume he is a psychopath, a man who is bound to snap eventually and prefer to avoid him at all costs. Single him out they do as their petty little minds observe the man they can't even begin to comprehend. You, on the other hand, are different. You don't see a mind that could hold dangers at all. You see a man that is different, brilliant even, but you also observe the dangerous streak in knowing him. When you see him, you see a battlefield littered with the bloodied bullets of the supposed innocent men, oh... but you have already seen that have you?" A smirk played across his lips.

"With that said, please do learn that associating with the wrong reflection in a room full of mirrors can only lead to the shattering of yourself. Judging by your mental capacity and the trauma you have led, and received, I can tell that you have already dealt with a few."

At this point, no words would leave me. My throat was constricted, my heart beating as I heard his deduction. It wasn't like Sherlock's at all. His held meaning, intentions, that compared to Sherlock's, were more like precise puncture wounds to a dull spoon. They were made to remind, not to dulcify, and to leave you utterly taciturn, unable to respond. My mind faintly plucked out the memory of this state mirroring when I was sent away from my family and I brushed it aside viciously. No time for reminiscing, especially in the eyes of this man.

"I... I will not."

A raised eyebrow, "Hm?"

"I will not help you with Sherlock," I clarified further, my mind still trying to organize itself.

"You are very loyal, very quickly."

I could feel my eyes avert to the door that I wanted him to leave so desperately, "No I'm not... I'm just not interested. Why do you wish to know of his whereabouts anyways?"

I saw Mycroft pick up his umbrella, leaning on it in a pose that I would soon grow to hate, "I worry about him... constantly."

I didn't get to utter any further words of curiosity when he did the action I wanted him to do when I first heard him speak. Of course now I didn't want him to walk out of that door. I wanted to see what he meant, why he was worried, but of course I knew that I had no say or impact in this man. He was going to leave without a say on my part.

He was about to leave the quarters when his face turned to me, a shadow outlining the more receded parts of his facial structure, "Time to choose a side Dr. Watson. I hope your injuries help you in that decision. Oh... also, please do speak up next time a little louder. I could barely hear your voice. A more severe case of the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder you misdiagnosed?" With that, the door shut behind him silently, the aura of a grinning cat wafting in the air at my stuttered thought processes.

Swearing under my breath, I finally let my facade fall briefly, revealing a terrified man. A man that has seen much, witnessed more, and still hasn't grown used to it. Thank God I was used to hiding it, to faking it, otherwise I'm sure I would have been placed in an asylum sooner or later. I could feel memories peering through my rambling thoughts, pulling out bits and pieces of my reflection staring back at me. My face was emotionless, blank as it stared back at me. It's eyes were blue, but it wasn't the vivid azure that I grew with, no, it was a dead blue that was losing color or any gradation of life. Lips were thin and chapped to shreds that coincided with the dark shadows, representing all the sleepless nights I had endured. This was all inside my head, but I knew as I stared at my past picture, it was what I appeared at this moment. My palace was in a chaotic turmoil that doused any sort of reason from touching the surface. A blank wall splattered with pointless information along with the important parts, merging to create nonsense that not even Sherlock could organize.

Moving my fingers, I gently lift my arm, the one that ached the most. It was painted in stitches, crossing threads that patterned around my upper arm. The lower arm wasn't much better. The mid-arm was cradled with tubes that circulated blood. In and out.

A sigh escaped my lips as I realized what it was, settling down my fluttering heart. God, the littlest of things were bothering me now. It's almost worse than before. I don't even know why it got so worked up over such a small (then again, perhaps small wasn't the right term) detail. It was only a blood transfusion... I mean, I did lose a lot of...

_Blood._

_There was so much. Crimson adoring not only my open skin but my aggressors blade as well. The dark room hid almost everything, but I could still feel when the blade was near by how it dripped my own blood back on my stiff face. I couldn't open my eyes now, finding it no use at the moment. What was I going to see exactly? Nothing but shadows that hung hungrily on every drop of my life._

_What should have been a sigh escaped my lungs in a groan. That was a bad move. Another slash soon grazed my cheek, shallow, a warning. My guard was down though, albeit briefly, and it was enough to ensue what he promised. I could just feel the grin as he sent another laceration along my stomach, the muscles recoiling shakily from the pain. My breath hitched for a moment, but I made sure no noise left this time. Noise only pursued the onslaught._

_My breath caught as I held in every minuscule noise my mouth wanted to make to emphasize the pain I was going through. No. I will not give the food for more. I must last long enough for..._

_For who? Who was going to save me in all actuality? I had no family to worry for my health, save perhaps Harry, and I had no friends. I'm not even sure what Sherlock was exactly. He wasn't an acquaintance, but he wasn't a friend either. A comrade? A potential co-worker-thing? I honestly have no idea how to categorize his amazing mind and this hazy fog drafting its way into my head wasn't helping in the slightest. I shouldn't be thinking too much into this. It wasn't what I need to be thinking. _

_A small voice in the back of my mind whispered that perhaps, just maybe, Sherlock would find that I was abducted, but I sliced the thought in half immediately._

_I didn't leave exactly on a good note, punching him in the nose. _

_I held back the chuckle that wanted to leave my throat. I don't regret punching his nose at all, the bloody twat deserved it, but is this some twisted version of karma? An eye for an eye, a nose for a nose? If so, then my punishment hasn't come yet. So far every other injury, blood wise, occurred, but nothing to my beautiful fucking face. _

Crack!

_I could feel the pain brushing across my nose and my face scrunched up, okay never mind._

_"What are you smiling at John Watson? I don't think this is exactly a happy matter, you know. At least, not for most people," the man next to me spoke next to my ear. _

_God do I hate this man with a passion. If I wasn't tied up, and with no means of escape with the given factor that my arms were currently useless, I would have this man knocked out well into next week. _

_Metal grazed along the roof of my mouth as well as my lead tongue, "Well, I'm not most people exactly..." another lash for my cheek just for responding, "...ow... but I know for a fact that somebody will find me."_

_The man stopped the blade a centimeter from my chest and I could feel the faint hesitation leaking through his moments. After a while, dark chuckles escaped by the tell-tale signs of the blade bouncing off my chest in his guffaws, "Oh? And who would that be Dr. Watson? Sherlock Holmes? He doesn't even know you were abducted nonetheless the fact that you are here."_

_He was right, damn him he was, but how did he know I thought of Sherlock Holmes. Wait, actually, why did my mind go straight to Sherlock when I mentioned that earlier? I'm not even close to the detective, but still, my mind drifted to him. Ugh, I must be losing it. No way was Sherlock going to save me, if anybody._

_After no reply was given on my part, the slicer resumed his little sword dance, dissecting parts of my body where ever necessary but never breaking the skin farther than an inch. It was enough to make me feel it, to make itself known, but nothing further than a blood mark that would remind my later. That is, if I was even alive later. Who knows at this point._

_I knew it was only a matter of time before my lights went out, before I succumbed to the scythe death was holding over me, but I wasn't giving in that easily. That's what I kept telling myself. The chant resounded in my mind, but these words were nothing to Morpheus's spell that started the shave the edges of my mental processes. I wanted to groan and punch a wall as the edges fell to sleep; I knew that this was going to make me vulnerable and I would regret it._

_I didn't realize it would be so soon._

_A quick pierce to my cheek caused my breath to hitch and a silent whimper erupted from my lungs. Fuck, here it comes. Now I was going to get it and all my bravery would be sent out of the window. Next was going to be reason and at last, credibility. When that occurs, I will be sent back to being a child and at that point, anything he did or said to me would be believable in my mind. He could tell me I was bloody Father Christmas and I would find his lie flawless. If he told me I murdered a man and this was my punishment, my mind would find no aberration in the saying._

_Still, I had to remain strong. As the seconds ticked by with more vicious marks, those stiff walls were crumbling. I was trying to not let my guard down, but it was only a matter of time._

_Lacerations decorated my evolving corpse by this point; that much I was certain. I didn't know what they were, or even if they were anything, but the stinging of stale air hitting the exposed skin assured me that they were deep. Or were they? Maybe they were scrapes. I don't even know. They hurt. That's all that matters. They hurt and I can't reach over and hide them from sight and contact._

_Great. Their went some of my reasoning. I only had maybe a few minutes before the rest was gone and knowing this man, this monster, I was going to suffer a lot more than mere minutes. _

_Losing. I was losing this battle right now. There was no way I could win this, not without traumatizing my head I suppose. Compared to the wars, this was nothing. I've seen men die literally right in front of me. I have withstood torture to the limitations of any man. I was perfectly fine physically, but I knew this was not all he was known for. No, if that was it, this man, Moriarty, would have ditched him long ago. _

_It was only a matter of time before he started torturing me differently._

_Mentally._

Blinking, I realized I had tears falling from my eyes and tried to rub them away. What was that? A flashback? I was only about to mutter a single word and I was sent along a darkened path, spiraling to memories. My head throbbed in tune with my heart beat, but I refrained from addressing medication for the symptom. It would go away soon if I stop trying to think of what happened. I didn't want to think of it either, so that made the action all the more simpler to perform.

My medical lucidity took a hold of this case in its own perspective, analyzing my mental injuries. I tried to rationalize the symptoms that made itself know, but could feel my heart drop when my mental diagnosis tallied up all the symptoms it had recorded on consciousness. I knew what it could be, what the only possibility could be, but denial was in my bones and it would remain thick as long as I remained. Certainly I was wrong. The doctor in my head screamed otherwise and pointed out in glares at my ignorant shadow.

They all pointed to the one thing I was certain I would never ever have. The mere thought proved to be a bitter pill to swallow on its own.

_Wait. _

Ceasing my rambling thoughts and disastrous mumblings, I felt hope spring temporarily. The doctor. The doctor, the official one. I'm in shock so maybe I'm not thinking straight. Perhaps I am just thinking wrong. Yeah, that has to be it. I'll just wait for the doctor. He (or she) can assure me that I am just disoriented, that I am utterly fine.

Apparently I didn't have too long to wait.

A few seconds of trying to recede the flaring up of my thoughts, faint voices that were not mine made its way through. It was like a fishing rod as I was efficiently pulled out of the water with ease at the more sane interest.

Looking up from my fingers, picking at the skin under my nails in nervous ambition, I cocked my head at the voices I heard. It was muffled at first but as the minute wore on, they became more clear. Two voices. One angry, one calm and reassuring. I recognized the angry one as Lestrade's and smiled slightly before feeling it drop. I couldn't keep it up; too much energy.

"Just give me a few minutes with the mate. He is probably confused and you coming in will only worsen things."

"I'm sorry, but I'm sure he is old enough to hear this right now," the doctor spoke sternly, "You do not need to be there. He is also a doctor, as I have come to understand, so I find no necessity in you having to be of attention during the hearing."

"Are you hearing yourself? He was bloody tortured and considering what I offered to do to help him back, I believe I have full right to be there. At least I know him where as you don't. Tell me, who will frighten him more? You are your... doctor looks or me with a reassuring face and an actual smile?"

The doctor was getting angry, "And we are fully grateful for your donation considering our uncharacteristic lack of supplies, but we can't allow you in there. You are not on his family list in the slightest."

"I don't need to be on that roster to see him. I believe that it is visitors hours so why should I not see a friend? Am I restricted from such? Just let me through to see the mate. That is all I am asking."

The doctor sighed, resigned, "And who are you Mr. Lestrade? To him at least."

There was a pause before the door opened, "A friend."

In the moment the doctor and he had been talking, I had been preparing myself. My body functions were threatening override at this point and I knew that would result in total detachment. Even if the thought of no pain was more refreshing than the other option, I wasn't going to be selfish. No, not for Lestrade who obviously had a role in my life saving. I owe him, almost as much as I owe Sherlock at this moment.

Raising my eyes to the DI's, I visibly saw him go through a wave of relief as he made contact. A smile broke out almost immediately and I found myself doing the same. His smiles are infectious. They remind me of this woman I met on the streets once, a Fria Dubois, but that is for remembering later. I can't afford to reminisce now, not when Lestrade is already eying me like a time bomb mere seconds from going off.

The older man walked over to where I currently laid, one hand in his coat pocket and the other idly running through his hair or just twitching at his side.

"Hey mate, how are you doing?" He asked as he sat in the chair next to my cot. He removed a pad and pen from his inside pockets, laying them down silently on the end table.

My voice was still small, almost hushed, but I made effort to put more volume into it and that effort didn't go unnoticed to the inspector, "Didn't I already answer this before?"

He laughed, worry evident in his eyes. Great, he caught on to my defects. Now he wasn't going to leave for a longer amount of time, not that I wanted him to leave anyways. Just the mere thought of that happening was enough for my heart to race, another sign that wasn't missed by the DI. Dammit. "Yeah, I suppose you did but that was back when I wasn't sure if you were going to live you know? How are you right now is what I meant."

Leaning back on the pillow, I let a sigh escape, the breath of a man that tasted death and didn't enjoy the after taste it waived, "Like utter shit to be honest. My entire body aches, I have tubes protruding from various parts of me, and my mind won't shut up. So yeah, pretty bloody awful." Despite all of the irritants, I smiled at the older man next to me; an action to break the ice.

It worked.

Soon after I did so, Lestrade smiled back and I could see some of the worry leave his eyes and body. About time.

Lestrade whistled, "Well, you did go through a hell of a lot mate. If I remember correctly, your arms, stomach, and legs were scratched to pieces. You have a concussion, broken nose, sprained ankle, and a broken wrist on your right. I would say you went through hell and back, but I think you have dealt with worse," he chuckled lightly, trying to dissipate the heavy atmosphere, "As for the mind, can't help you there. I think that is just being around Sherlock too much in all honesty. I swear, he can make anybody mental."

More laughter escaped my lungs in brief, breathy exhales. It was nice to laugh, to not hide much, but it did not happen without a backfire.

A sharp stab aimed itself at my abdomen, immediately causing a blossom of pain and transforming the nice laughter into a heavy, long-lasting groan. It was horrible and didn't cease as my laughter did, spiraling up to make me almost want to hurl. It took all my will to not curl in upon myself. Damn it all. It definitely didn't help that the lovely atmosphere we had before was practically ruined thanks to this fit.

Lestrade was there almost immediately, God bless him for his worry but it was starting to get a tad annoying, especially when I was trying to dismiss it, "You okay? I can call the doctor if-"

I shook my head, "No. Don't. Can't stand them to be truthful."

"But are you-"

"A doctor?" I finished, "Yeah, but for some reason, doctors caring for doctors never work out. It's like a dog marking territory and all that drama," I shook my head, "Let's just say that if a doctor were to come in to tell another doctor of the same titles that he had cancer for some ungodly reason, the one in the actual bed with the sickness would continue to debate with the doctor over the falseness of the accusation until one backs down. It is utterly tiring." I myself have gone through it multiple times, winning all of them of course.

Lestrade laughed once more, shaking his head. I could tell he understood exactly what I was saying, probably from his yard. If most of them are like the Donovan woman or Anderson, he must have his hands full on a daily basis; not accounting for Sherlock for that matter.

Raising his left hand, he gently placed it on my shoulder. He looked like he was going to start mentioning the possible doctor outside, but I had to be an idiot.

Of course I had to ruin the moment by noticing the bandages on his arms.

"What happened?"

Lestrade looked at his arm before glancing up again at me, a sheepish grin on his face, "Well... when they brought you in, you had lost a lot of blood. Even the doctors expected you to die if you were not given a blood transfusion. It figured that your type would be temporarily out for the moment so they came to me next, asking for my blood type. Apparently we are one and the same."

I let all of this soak in, a little shocked. Somebody did all of this for me? No, absolutely not. Not for a traitor, not for the likes of myself. Still, evidence never lies and now that I observed him more, he was lacking some color along with a small portion of his normally perfect balance. The more obvious facts were next to me, the tubes running in and out of my body like wires charging a battery. Sighing, I smiled and turned to Lestrade, my eyes still a little widened from the realization.

"So... you did a blood transfusion... for me?"

A firm nod, "Yeah. Your a good guy John; it doesn't take an idiot to see it. Besides, you are probably one of the few people Sherlock has actually tried... befriending per say."

It was a simple reply, but by the way he smiled when mentioned that name, Sherlock's name, it was obvious that it was a important deal for him. I recognized the look not only from him, but from Mrs. Hudson as well and a little from Molly. I never really understood the look and still didn't now. Was he some sort of troubled child? Is he capable of snapping (I highly doubt it)? What is wrong with Sherlock Holmes that most of the people he is close with are worried about it, that they are grateful for me for?

I was curious. Even though such an emotion was a flaw in most cases, I believed I had the right to know why. Besides, what else was I going to do as I laid here? I couldn't necessarily think; my mind already tearing itself to pieces with negativities. I couldn't move with all the injuries and the stubborn nurses and doctors around. I might as well ask this question now so I'm not plagued in a haze of demented mystery until somebody comes to clear it away.

"Why do you and Mrs. Hudson worry about Sherlock constantly? It's like you two are afraid he will snap or fall..."

Silence greeted my prompt and I awaited. After perhaps a minute or so, I peered over at the man next to me. He was looking down at his fingers, twiddling his thumbs in idle thought, "It's not that. We know he is a great man, Sherlock. His mind can recover anything and everything. We are reassured with the fact that he is a great man, but one day, perhaps soon, we hope that he will be a good one."

As he said those words, I mulled them over in my head, thinking them over.

"What do you mean 'a good one'?"

He sighed and ran his hand throughout his graying hair, "Eh... how do I explain this? Let's see, you know how he his from the week you have been with him right? Silent, to himself, utterly annoying, only showing annoyance and dismay to anyone except the special few?

"He is encased in his own throne and everyone knows he's a brilliant man, but nobody shows it correctly except you, I, Mrs. Hudson, and some others. How he can deduct a case in a minute when it could take my entire yard a week! It's a wonder, something miraculous, but deep down I know it's a double-edged sword. He could be brilliant, and turn to a criminal; especially with all the cases he has seen for input. He could be a consulting criminal, make up the job like his current one, but he could also be a good man. He could continue to use his brilliance to actually help people, not just for boredom but to actually do so.

"What I'm saying is that he's in the middle right now. He is stuck right down the middle and perhaps you can be the first step into pushing him to become the 'good man' I hope him to be."

I blinked, "You almost sound like your his father or something," I spoke before quickly adding in, "not implying your age and all. It's just the way you refer to him."

Lestrade chuckled, "No I understand you mate. I suppose you could say I'm an old friend but God forbid if you told him that he would just say he doesn't have any," a sigh, "I knew him when he was a kid, when he actually saw his first case. I was the only one to listen to him, but it wasn't enough. We still haven't found out what happened to that case, but I always knew Sherlock knew and that's what kept me in touch with him."

I felt a smile tug at my lips as I saw Lestrade go into a moderate state of remembrance.

The said state didn't last long though. Soon enough he was out of it in a blink of an eye and concentrated on me once more. He looked a tad bit guilty and nervous and knew what was coming up. Nonetheless, I looked down briefly at my fingers once more; watching as my nails messed with the skin outlining the others.

"Uh... John? Can I ask you some questions?"

I looked up, "Shoot."

Lestrade lowered his head, business on his face as plain as day, "It's about your abduction. We need a report on the people who took a hand in it."

"Ah..." I responded, a quick message of fear flitting through my head that I dashed aside, "Okay. Go ahead."

"Okay, do you know who the men were?"

I was going to shake my head before two names stood out like lights on a Christmas tree, "Moriarty. The other one I'm not really sure, but I remember a faint nickname... Sebby?"

Lestrade nodded, taking notes on a pad i didn't know he contained, "Do you know where you were held?"

"No."

He looked up at my quick response, "No? Are you sure john?"

I nodded, "Yes. It was... dark. I couldn't feel or see a thing besides a faint glimpse when the door opened and even then I was too blinded to take notice."

"Okay..." Lestrade wrote the last word down before looking up at me with concern, his pad to the side, "One more question for now, and it's going to be the hardest."

I gulped silently, knowing what it was before he said it.

"What happened John?"

"I... It was just a-"

_"Normal kidnapping wouldn't you say?" The malicious man in front of me spoke. He was testing me, testing my limits. Rationality was out the window by this point so I suppose I was where he wanted me._

_"I'm going to play a game with you, care to join?" my lead tongue held nothing to his remark, "Good. I will explain this game, though I suppose I will have to admit that this entire thing was not my ideal plan of torture. In all honesty, I would love to kill you on the spot, but I have my orders, and I do not disobey them... unlike you."_

_My head was hanging right now, the words he spoke entering and leaving my ear in the same motion._

_"He thought it was a good game, though I will admit that I prefer other sorts. Nonetheless, here it goes. This is all his words so you know, 'I will play a game with you. Every slash I make will be accompanied by a true remark. If you deny it or don't say anything, you will get a deep slash dangerously close to your vital organs. If you agree to the statement, you will only have the word that sticks out the most etched into your skin. Sound fair?'"_

_I groaned in reply and I could hear the chuckle from the aggressor, "Trust me. It only gets better."_

_Looking up at the man, or at least I hoped I was looking at him, I felt a mixture of a whimper and a sigh leave my throat. Soon after came gravel crawling up, somewhat resembling words in the process, "Why?"_

_A little bit of a huff from the other end and I could tell he was shrugging,"Because it's an order..."_

_I was about to respond in the normal 'Why don't you defy him' response when he added with a sadist tone to his voice, "And because I think it would be rather enjoyable myself. I've never tortured a soldier before so this will be... interesting. I just have to not kill you and I know many ways in this game to not do so."_

_I heard a sharp metal grind beside me and flinched._

_I was screwed, in simple terms. I held no back bone now with how much blood I have lost along with the utter circumstance of it all. I was more than likely in delirium and as I calculated earlier, that would only result in me believing anything. _

_In other words, this can end really really badly for me. Mentally incapable, physically scarred. Not a good mix, but of course I couldn't think of ways to ignore the words either. The only option I held was to endure them and battle with my will to accept or deny them. I just hope they are not as vague as I think they may be or I might be in danger; one cannot discern truth from lies if they are so ambiguous and enigmatic that it could be both._

_"I find it useless to tell you this since you can't do anything to retaliate really, but I was instructed to do so so I will comply," a sigh,"I'm going to begin now; there is no point in strengthening the little power you do have because I know exactly what to say... ex Army Dr. Watson, traitor."_

_I felt my body stiffen. No, this was only the first round, only the beginning. I can't become incapable right now. God, what kind of soldier would I be if I couldn't do this much?_

_"You know you are a mistake in your family, someone who isn't even spoken of in fear of being shunned," he sneered as he slashed my arms._

_I was quiet and that was my flaw; unable to respond if not finding the need to._

_"Reply Dr. Watson," he spoke, louder. A deep slash was driven to my upper abdominal areas, close to my already prominent rib cage. I winced, but made no noise. Right, no response, pain, but if I reply I still get pain. Double-edged sword._

_"I..." I forgot what I was going to say._

_"Yes?" He responded, his knife tip already pressed into my stomach, blood dripping slowly down my skin._

_"I... It's true."_

_"What's true?" he replied innocently. I had to admit it? Why? _

_"Oh, and don't say it dead, my boss said not to do that. You have to sound sincere, like you believe it."_

_But... the only way for me to act like I believe it now is for me to actually... believe it._

_Trying to work up the act, I felt the little voice in the back of my head finally speaking up. It wasn't holding back as it subconsciously doused me in materials to find his statement true. My father slapping me hard across my face; mentioning my mother and how unhappy she would be if she was alive. My past self responding in silence. My sister running out to break up the argument, but my father resisted her pleas. He looked at me then. Such... disgust in his eyes. His gaze was the sort you set on vermin, on filth, and that was what his son was to him now. I was nothing but the grime that covered London's sewers now. I faintly remembered him calling me a traitor, someone who shouldn't have been born if he was to be the cause of so many deaths. He told me to never come home again and set me off, nothing to my name except the guitar he threw back as if it was tainted in the same substance I was now presented in._

_It didn't take long for the emotions that gripped me then to shower me once more. Grief, remorse, guilt, and most of all, depression._

_"It's true,"I heard a voice say, hollow and full of despair. It took me a second to realize it was my own, "I'm a mistake to my family, someone that shouldn't have been born to uphold their name." _

_After mumbling those incoherent words, I tried to revert my mind back to what it was before, but I couldn't. I held no power to do it and therefore was stuck in this mind set. Had I not been tortured before this game, I probably would be able to do it, but I was stuck in a haze of grief now. Nothing can penetrate grief except either intense darkness or a bright light. Right now, it looked to be the first choice._

_A pat was given on my head and I flinched inwardly, "Good job Dr. Watson. Now what will it be? Mistake? I think the word suits you well."_

_I felt my head nod and my heart fell. This was only the first assertion of many._

_A cold blade ran through my skin, but I was numb from the other aching parts of my body. He formed each letter, carving into my flesh like a pumpkin and making sure the wound was deep enough to scar the word after it healed. _

_I didn't deny it, the words after they left my mouth. I didn't deny anything. Any response he gave me, I believed._

_"Your a traitor of your country, a man that should have died on the battlefield."_

_A hung head, "Yes. I'm such a man." _

_Another word: Traitor._

_"A man of lies, of fake personas, you have masks surrounding your deceiving intentions."_

_A faint trickle of tears, "It's all true. I'm a liar to everyone that knows me."_

_Repetitive outlines: Liar._

_My head was swimming to the brim with lies hidden between truths. It was like a endless monologue, but even had it ended, my mind would still continue it. It would will fill in the blanks of my faults willingly because it secretly wanted to ruin me, wanted to end me. To Sherlock, his thoughts, his own reminiscences were his sanctuary, but to me? My own was my demons, feeding hungrily on my despair and right now they were practically ravenous._

_I had lost count how many times he stated these ridiculous accountings that I couldn't have done. He said all of these fibs that screamed utter lies, but I was a child. Well, at least I reduced to the mind set of one._

_So many words plagued my mind like floating scars. I didn't know what was worse at that point, accepting them and being physically assaulted, or accepting them and being mentally incapable. _

_I didn't know when the game ended; all I knew was that black was starting to overpower my vision, and I knew this one wasn't the room._

_Voices. I remembered voices. They were faint, merging together as the seconds ticked by._

_"Oh Sebby, I told you to keep him alive."_

_"I did, or at least, last I checked he was. It isn't my fault if he didn't hold the will to live."_

_A stern voice, full of threats that would be fulfilled, "It will be your fault if he dies. You had a simple order to fulfill your sadistic tensions as long as his heart remained beating. You haven't disobeyed me yet, don't start now dear."_

_The attackers voice was silent before muttering, solemnly at that, "Yes, sir."_

_That was the last I remembered as my entire being collapsed, broken and under turmoil on whether to attempt in repairing it's cut off edges._

When I came to, Lestrade was next to me, hands on my shoulders and shaking them vigorously, "John? John mate, calm down. Shit, um... think of Sherlock. I don't know, just calm down and come back."

He was frantic as he looked from the beeping monitors to my convulsing form. It's funny though, I knew what was going on with my body, but it was like observing it with a third person perspective. I could see my hands, feel my entire body, trembling in increasingly rougher tremors. I could tell thus was all occurring, but I was able to observe other views as well like how Lestrade looked as he tried to get me out of the confusing state I was currently in.

Guilt ridden eyes trailed to the door of the room. I could see he was about to yell for the doctor, but he didn't need to. His mouth opened to yell for her name, and he even began to mouth the syllables, when she walked in briskly. The expression on her face was similar to a individual angry for somebody messing with something they were strictly told not to get mixed up in.

"What did you do?" She spoke accusingly like a stern mother. I saw Lestrade's shoulders slump as he was persecuted, but I held some respect for him when he didn't go silent but spoke to the dagger-eyed doctor.

"I was trying to get a statement on his abductors, as a detective should normally do in this case," he replied calmly though I could see fear flit in and out of his eyes.

The doctor was glaring at Lestrade, but that was all I could tell. My third person perspective was becoming limited, considerably darker and more blurry, as other symptoms began to appear. I was becoming warm, unbearably so, and I could feel the sweat starting to seep through as it tried to keep up with cooling it back to normal. My hospital garments were beginning to stick to my form uncomfortably as the sweat acted as glue. Why was I getting so warm? Did they turn the thermostat up or am I imagining this?

The doctor nor the detective inspector noticed this. They were too busy bickering among each other. I would have tried to get their attention but my tongue was lead and heavy. I couldn't move it if I tried though I wish I could. Their conversation, no matter the volume, was beginning to create a headache that only added to the chaos.

Can the two stop their bloody arguing? I thought bitterly, if she's a doctor, she should be able to sense this isn't the right way to act, especially right now.

"And you wonder why we don't let detectives in when we have a trauma patient,"the doctor muttered before pushing him out of the way to get to the machines by my bed side. Lestrade backed away willingly, all fight out of his lungs leaving him with only the apparition of worry to converse in. The doctor, however, was doing her job, and quite efficiently might I add. She started pressing buttons, determination on her face. After doing this for roughly a few seconds, she injected a serum into the tube connected to my body.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade questioned as he noticed no change.

"Stabilizing his vitals if possible," she responded as if common knowledge.

"Do you want me to get more doc-"

"No," she responded quickly, her jaw visibly clenching, "I shouldn't need anybody. I can take care of this."

"O...Kay," Lestrade spoke slowly before adding more with more strength, "I just want to be sure because that is my friend-"

"Yes I know Mr. Lestrade. To me, he's a fellow medical comrade and patient so let me tell you that I will not let him go into any severe a state than this."

He looked skeptical, "What's a more severe state than this? He's practically having a seizure!"

She eyed him with a level look that just spoke volumes, "unconsciousness. Currently speaking, that would not be good in his condition. He has to remain conscious considering how long it took us to get him to that point in the first place."

That caused all conversation to cease for the better as they came to a mutual point that my life was apparently more necessary than their adamant discomfort among each other.

I, on the other hand, was only feeling worse. I could feel my heartbeat in my cranium, bouncing along the walls of my head vigorously as if it was a wrecking ball. It was like a cage with a raging lion trying to claw at you. That wasn't it; I could hear it. It's irregular beat and quickening pace. I could take note of every piece of information on my heart right now by how close it felt to my head, by how it felt like it was my head.

The back of my brain, the coherent side, diagnosed this symptom as palpitations. Mentally shutting it up, I concentrated on keeping my head together. It was almost a losing battle, almost.

Lestrade hands were once again enforced on my shoulders when he noticed my gaze faltering to the darker side.

"What's happening to him?" He near shouted at the doctor and she turned to him, sharp brown eyes calculating whether to tell him or not.

"He's having a panic attack," she spoke with certainty. If I wasn't caught in this situation, I would sigh in relief right about now. I understand panic attacks. I just need to think of something calm, something that will help avert my attention from the trauma... the blood... the verdicts...

The cuts, the truths. I'm a mistake, a man that was cursed to kill everyone he associated with. More bruises, more scars. I was filth to my family name, I shouldn't have succumbed succumbed to what I did, should have ignored the morality seeping in. But I didn't. I didn't and now I'm here. Bloody. So much blood, too much dark.

I could feel my lungs constrict as I continued down this vicious circle. The air began to get thinner and thinner as my nerves screamed at me to breath, to take a deep breath.

I can't breath. Why can't I breathe?

"He's having difficulty breathing!" Lestrade relayed, glaring daggers at the doctor while looking worriedly at me, "What do we do?"

The doctor sighed and backed away. Placing her hands on her hips, she looked at Lestrade as if to judge him, "How close of a friend are you to Dr. Watson?"

Lestrade blinked before speaking, "Perhaps a week now?"

"A week?!" She scoffed.

"But!" He interjected, "I might be able to help. What does it matter?"

Placing a hand to her face in a mellow state of disbelief, she sighed and replied with a slight annoyed tone to her voice, "You need to calm him down with something unrelated to the topic that triggered him to go into the state."

"Like?" Lestrade prompted.

"Like," she replied, "a friend, an act of kindness. It has to be something that will avert his conscious down a smoother path."

Lestrade thought for a moment before nodding with a grim smile, "I think I know what will help."

After he said those words, he stopped shaking my figure and looked me straight in the eyes. Worry was evident, but he masked it well with a soft expression that lessened the volume of the heartbeats ever so slightly.

"Hey mate. I know that you barely know me, I mean, I only met you a few times, but listen to me alright? Let's just go down memory lane for a bit. Remember who got you of that street? The man that spared a look at you when nobody else would? I think you know who I'm talking about. The only consulting detective in the world, Sherlock Holmes. He's a great man, and a good one as well from the way he helped you. You know he's never given a second thought about anybody? You are his exception so don't you dare go unconscious now or he might not find another one."

I could feel the air come back into my lungs with ease as he continued, "he never told me why he decided you were a good pick, but it must have been something different, eh? I remember him mentioning your love for the guitar. He isn't exactly expressive to you musician sorts but he took notice of your skills didn't he? You must have been good I'd say. Some sort of virtuous prodigy, whatever it's pronounced as, to gather his interest. Now listen here, you have to calm down otherwise how else would you play? Nobody can play with shaky fingers now can they?"

The pressure in my head resided slowly as he spoke. I didn't know how he was doing it, but he was calming me down by mentioning Sherlock of all people. God, now I owe the bored, insufferable detective more than I already did.

Nonetheless, as he kept repeating this along with questions he knew I was unable to answer, my breaths were catching up to me. I was soon accompanied by another headache from the lack of air given, but that was perfectly fine compared to not breathing at all. Bloody awful.

Lestrade also visibly relaxed, a smile on his face as his pointless babbling worked.

"There we go mate. Deep breaths. Just think of Sherlock and how much you probably really want to knock him out right now. That's pretty much my mind process so I wouldn't mind in the slightest. I think everyone thinks he deserves one good slap upside the head currently, and his arrogant attitude doesn't help in the either."

The only symptom remaining at this point was the trembling. Nonetheless, I gave a small smile albeit shaky.

"But we need the idiot," Lestrade's voice got slightly deeper, more assertive, "and you do too apparently. You both need each other regardless of his being a pain in the neck."

The doctor eyed our exchange with baffled skepticism as my vitals returned to a stable point. She look mystified but also a little annoyed considering this wasn't exactly the normal topic to use in calming down patients. Well, at least it was working.

Giving a sigh, I smiled a little at Lestrade as he pushed away from my shoulders. With a light squeeze, he released his death grip.

Where as he was calm and reassured by my smile, I was internally frightened out of my mind from what just happened.

"God..." I muttered shaking my head, "What was that?" The question was rhetorical but the doctor answered anyways.

"What you experienced was a panic attack, a medial scale one at that." She spoke as if she was higher than me, one that should be taken word of over myself.

I rolled my eyes a little, already sensing the territorial annoyance I explained to Lestrade earlier, "I know that doctor. What I meant to say was what brought it on."

Taking the clipboard off the edge of the bed, she flipped the page to the back before meeting my gaze once more, "Your trauma. Due to the degree of severity, your mental state has been altered I'm sure you have noticed. With that said, your mind in specially more susceptible to Non-Epileptic seizures, or psychogenic ones in your case."

Leaning back on the uncomfortable bed, I groaned at the pain from the abdomen but otherwise remained passive, "Great. Just my luck," I sighed, "What brought them on if I may ask?"

The doctor smiled at my polite question before responding, "Panic attacks are a psychiatric condition. They can happen  
>in frightening situations, when remembering previous<br>frightening experiences," she glared at Lestrade when she spoke this,"or in a situation that the person  
>expects to be frightening. To sum it up, the torture you went through and remembering what occurred caused you to enter this state."<p>

I nodded, understanding finally flitting to my features, "And how long will these occur do you know?"

A sigh from her end as she glared at the DI once more, "It depends on how often you try to remember it. If it's often, then not for a couple of months at the least. If you do small relapses every so often, then maybe a few weeks. I can't be sure since everyone is different and has a different set of standards and lifestyles," she spoke before concluding, "If you try not to force the memory to occur or appear, it will be gone sooner, or at the very least, become less severe."

"Ah, okay. Thank you doctor."

She gave another smile at me and I caught me grinning back as well, "Just call me Sarah."

Nodding, I let the name roll along my tongue, "thank you... Sarah."

I saw her face flush at my mentioning her name. She looked as if she was trying to hide it as she looked down at the clipboard. I wanted to laugh at her reaction, but found it to be rude and decided against it. A angry doctor makes for a very uncomfortable patient considering they can do anything and say anything and everybody will take their words over your own.

After a second, she looked up, only faint patches of pink remaining on her cheeks from before.

"Your welcome. Ah, is there anything I can do for you? Since you recently had a panic attack-"

"- I'm more susceptible to another for the next hour or so," I finished.

"Correct," she smiled again. She had a pretty smile now that I actually looked. To be honest, she was stunning, but out of my league so to speak. Smart, beautiful, a doctor; she was definitely out of my area.

Still, now that she asked... where is my guitar? The only thing I can be certain of is that perhaps I lost it in my abduction. Great. That's my second guitar I lost this week alone. Fantastic.

Well, might as well ask her if the hospital has one per chance.

"Ah... do you have a guitar?" I asked, a little uncomfortable for asking for such. I didn't know what reaction I would get for asking for the instrument, especially because I could sense the doubt in her features. It was brief, gone in an instant in fact, but it was definitely there.

Instead of advising some other absurd habit to get into, she responded differently.

Tilting her head, she thought it over, "yes, I believe we do in the recreational area. Do you wish for me to get it?"

I nodded, "Yes, please. That would be perfect."

After pardoning herself, she left the room quickly. I followed her brown hair as it tailed her out the door.

I heard a whistle beside me, "Awake for only a half hour and you already have a crush; color me jealous mate."

I laughed and shook my head, "it's not like that. She's just kind is all; it's how doctors are supposed to treat their patients."

He chuckled along, "Yeah keep telling yourself that but all she gave me was glares that could kill."

"You did annoy her with setting me on my episode," I reminded him with a chuckle.

"True." He laughed with me and it was then that I noticed the bags under his eyes. I decided not to mention It at this moment since I knew he would only counter it with my condition.

I sighed and leaned back on the bed, "What am I going to do? I've never dealt with this before, or at the very least, not this severe."

Lestrade patted my shoulder, "Tell Sherlock so he knows. I'm sure he will be able to deduct it in a seconds notice, but warn him anyways. He tends to not listen," a laugh, "Also, perhaps take it easy?"

I smiled at Sherlock's name, "He might not think anything of it. But I suppose you're right."

Lestrade nodded and relaxed in the chair, looking about to pass out in the uncomfortable piece of furniture.

"Whatever you do, just know that these next few months are going to be utter hell."

I laughed, "You're funny. I've been to hell and I have been cursed to live and tell the tale."

* * *

><p><em>See what I mean? Sloppy. Nope. Not good. At least, not for my high tower of expectations. *sigh* <em>

_Okay, well, at least it's a long chapter to make amends for the week delay._

_Oh! As for John, he suffers from a more adamant PTSD, though it isn't physical. Due to the method Moran used, it was more mental than not. I know in the original series this would not phase the doctor, but this John has gone through more than his fair share of unfortunate events. He will be basically normal except he will... you know what? I shall let you find out since, especially in the next three chapters I have planned, it becomes quite noticeable what his remaining symptoms are. Don't worry, no more panic attacks for at least those three chapters though I am very very tempted._

_I introduced another character, didn't you notice? This Fria Dubois? More flashbacks except a minor love interest thing since I love writing tragedies. Not by choice, just by method. But yes, she will be mentioned, if I have it my way that is, in the next chapter._

_Oh. Another thing. John will sing a song next chapter, with Sherlock popping in because with the way I have things set, he will somehow end up around John when he sings. It just accidentally turns out that way. Again, not by choice, just by method._

_Now I must leave you lovely readers to finish the next chapter for this along with chapter 1 and 2 of SPD..._

_Review/Critique. Both are very much welcome in this! Always!_

_Ciao~_


	9. Chapter 9

_I'm so sorry for the lateness once more that you should probably get used to reading this by now. Well, this is chapter 9 which is long overdue I imagine. I hope it's worth the wait and everything. I apologize for the grammar and spelling errors, especially since my editing this time around mostly consisted of more detail than trying to fix those important errors. How annoying.. _

_Anyways! I hope you like it! I wouldn't have gotten it done had it not been for the lovely reviews I received along with the wonderful friends (I hope I can call you dears this) World'sOnlyConsultingTimeLady and coleys17. They are amazing fanfiction writers and if you read there stories, you will not be disappointed. At least, I wasn't. They are incredibly nice and in my opinion deserve much praise for their skills. _

_So yes, I will leave you off here to read this horrible update I call chapter 9._

_Disclaimer: Do not own Sherlock... _

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sherlock POV<strong>_

I observed the area around me, searching for the one female that I knew would give me the information I needed. She _always_ did. For a price of course, but you can't get anything free and money wasn't an issue with me in the slightest. Giving a few pounds for a supposed "worthy cause" wouldn't hurt me - quite the opposite in fact.

She would be quite the seed of illumination if all serves well. I needed to learn more of this Moriarty man. He now holds a murder, 3 to be precise, and an attempt. Oh, I'm positive those are not the only names in his black book, but those were the ones I had access to at the moment. It is so deterring going after someone with so little to work with. I had no doubt that Anderson with all his utter stupidity and oblivious ideals mistreated the scene as soon as he got to them. I had mere scrapes to gather info from, but nonetheless I could still infer quite a bit from what I was able to scavenge. I could determine his characteristic by what he left, did, and by what miss Alice left in her notes.

She was definitely more intellectually advanced than most unsuspecting victims, but such is the advantage of knowing when your end is near. At least she didn't sob or perform some other ludicrous act of no sustenance. It's a waste of air and time to do so; not to mention that it makes a boring case to solve and a slightly less lengthy.

The actual Scotland Yard was out of the question in configuring information from. They held a futile crew with an even more contemptuous forensic group. So tasteless and unobservant. They don't approve of me, save for Lestrade, and I don't bother with them unless absolutely necessary. I certainly didn't need them now, not in the slightest when I have other means to use to my full disposal.

Of course that would be my own Yard so to speak.

My Baker St. Yard was much more informational than the lot that actually ran the supposed justice league. Quick-witted, frequently moving, and the fact that they hid in the shadows was an advantage. Nothing that passed any man or women's lips went unheard of with these type of people. They did anything I requested, factual wise, and with a low price in return.

I got along with one of them well enough, but at this moment I needed someone else. A girl that supposedly knows everything of any criminal to ever cross her gaze. I've talked to her before briefly, but those were for minor cases. This one was so much more interesting than not. Her tribute would be valuable, if she still holds the same efficiency as she always has in the past.

Now, where was she? She normally sits on a bench near the lamps but not directly under them. Shadows, look at shadows. I squinted at the small alley that obscured a broken bench. On its seat was a figure, thin and clearly female. As I took a step forward I noticed the familiar cup she normally carried as well as a brief flash of brown hair.

Ah, there.

The female in question turned her head as my gaze fell on her and I saw the glimmer of information in her eyes as she noticed one of her most frequent "donators". It was nothing more than a simple exchange of currency for a mutual benefit. A lone wanderer to look for my own purposes, in a truthful facade of a homeless pupil. She knew better, but we had a play to take part in so nobody suspects anything. The last thing necessary was small talk among the mindless. Common knowledge for anybody that has half a brain.

She straightened her back as a silent agreement was met. Business mode per say, though I didn't need any clarification of the sorts. It was too obvious.

I walked over to her and saw her smile innocently, "would you give a few pounds, sir?"

I smirked, "What of its worth?"

Her smile turned to the mischievous grin of one of the shadows, good, "Oh nothing much I assure you. Just to have a cuppa or two." She gave a slight wink at the end.

Ah, perfect. Code wasn't my preferred choice of conversing, but it held its usefulness every now and then. A sort of communication not fully observed by people with seeing eyes. Of course I'm not an idiot. I know there are the few people who may be smarter than most, though definitely not as educated as myself, but close enough. Nonetheless, I'm not going to make them so easy to decipher. That's completely wasteful of the people I have gained and it is time killing anyways. When It comes to these things, time is one of those aspects I treasure the most.

"Very well," I dropped the few pounds into her awaiting palms before slipping a note in the package. I saw her open the note but turned on my heels and walked away before people became suspicious. It was fluid and appeared as if I was a supposed good denizen, as if such boundaries existed to be utterly candid. I doubt it; it's just the way people tend to be nowadays.

Oh god, people. Such ordinary minds become so occupied with gossip and rumors. All they do is talk or glare, it's really rather a pointless way to live one's life. What does it do to your overall value? It doesn't enhance it nor does it deter it. Instead it remains neutral, boring. It does _nothing_, but they clearly haven't figured that out.

Nonetheless, I still needed to obtain more information, something my little group cannot find. It needed to be from a higher power, a more pompous source. Of course even those are limited to nothing more than a few individuals and most prefer not to deal with my acquaintance. In truth, I held only one individual who would give me any piece I needed... for a price. I suppose at this point I might need a phrase or two to set me on a track before my lovely female scout sees anything of apparent usefulness.

Taking out my phone, I felt my fingers itch towards a despicable number and I immediately discarded the device in my pockets once more. My rational side chased the weakness in me as the internal war raged on. No, I will not consult _him_. He's even more unbearable than the simple minded people, but still not as insufferable as Anderson.

Just... Anderson. Just mentioning that name sends shivers down my spine and a bitter taste to flow through my mouth. How does he become so full of tyranny in the sense of diagnostics and crimes? So unobservant, so annoyingly oblivious; it was truly a sight to behold for one of my stature and not in the best ways I assure you.

Flicking the thought from my mind, I swiftly got rid of the distraction and tried to narrow down what I did have. It was so meager and limited! How does a crime scene hold that little amount of facts? Anderson wasn't even in the room yet! So little facts, so little time. I have to think. All of this rambunctious disruptions are not aiding any sort of discovery and I doubt it ever will. It only advises a flaw which I will never stand for. Flaws lead to misleadings an misleadings lead to failure. Failure will make me very unhappy and I doubt anybody would wish to see that.

I sighed. I hate not knowing everything, not understanding every note to the finest tune. It's so... uncharacteristically annoying and offsetting. I had no leads besides the image left on John's phone from before. I knew nothing of the man's description nor the habits of this man and I will never know until I meet him face to face. How lengthy and vexatious.

Watching the busy street with distaste I hailed a cab and climbed in silently, occupied with the combinations of a tedious case and an even more insidel event. The event would be easy to pin since it involves my doctor, but the case will take longer. A few hours at least. I don't know what was worse at that point, the boredom that threatened to collapse my mind palace or the tension I felt with the lack of progress for one diminutive case.

_IOU_

I wasn't blind to the obvious. The writing was certainly scrawled by this Moriarty character. I could not gather much from the image, but I could tell he held slim, calculating fingers itching for murder. They were not shaky in the slightest but still and calm. He has therefore committed various sorts of murders, obviously considering the case we were on before this whole debacle occurred, but they were worse than this one. Worse but in no way any less entertaining to his persona. He was proud of this one. Very much so. If he wasn't he wouldn't have gone so far as to make this condensing image.

It was supposed to hint a haze of dysphoria. An image made to provoke fear and uncertainty into my thoughts. Such an amateur. Of course I don't mean he is such in his methods of criminal background, but in his assumptions of people. Normal people would be unsettled by the information, but I found it appealing in terms of disabling my thick fog of boredom. It held a different frequency in which prodded my mind from the deepest corridors of the palace I centered in. The only flaw I have seen thus far would be his giddy, theatrical nature. Being too flamboyant will get you caught making this a quick solve sadly if his act does not change.

Still, this was not all the facts, definitely not.

The other facts were not as positive as these, but they did hold ground to certain theories that ran in my mind. I can't create one clear thesis at all. One can only make a theory based on evidence and I am irritated to say that I did not hold such tools at my dispense. At least, not yet.

Nonetheless, I was certain of a handful of qualities. One, he held sharp eyes, no glasses definitely, but they weren't eyes shaped like mine. Considering the angle of the image, he was eye level and the fact he left in that cab, he isn't too tall, but definitely taller than John. His index finger was used since any other finger would shake from exertion, but I couldn't quite place his hand size. Not large, not at all, but not small at all. Medial range then, average. That leads me to his mind set.

He was not a man of clumsiness and disability. He didn't lack knowledge and seemed to have plenty of resources judging by the look on John's face. He was traumatized but he was also a soldier. He has seen worse so it must be life related, similar to the reason that he didn't rely on family and didn't have a pension from the military. It was his faults more so, but who would have such information? Yes, this man was well-versed and had many threads throughout this city no doubt. He was a spider sitting comfortably in the middle of his web, certain that no one would ever reach him with the scythe of his fall. Interesting.

Almost as clever as I. Normally I would be overjoyed by this fact, for normal cases and murders were never as creative or mind-boggling as they used to be. I would be ecstatic, but he did hurt John, my newly admitted acquaintance, and even if I have only known him little over a week, he still struck a cord. It was annoying that he did so, but it's also intriguing considering nobody has ever been able to do so before.

I sighed with agitation as all of this nonsense I gathered turned up no new paths for me to follow. The only action I could do was the one I abhorred the most: waiting. God, it is so tedious, so boring. It doesn't even speed up time at all unless something interesting happens and the odds of that are slim to none when pertaining to me.

Well, I suppose I could go see John. He should be up now, or that is what the texts from Lestrade spoke.

Speaking of which, I took out my phone when I felt vibrations in my coat pocket and quickly noticed the new text from the DI.

_'Found anything? -GL'_

_'Nothing of mild interest, it seems that our abductor can cover his tracks well -SH'_

_'Not even you could find him? Is he some mystic being that I should admire considering your mind? -GL'_

_'Please, I will find him. It only takes patience. Stop blabbering over some nonsense on aeons, it is only fictional rubbish. -SH'_

_'Patience? Sorry mate but that is one characteristic you lack. While you are waiting for some god send sign to appear, why don't you come see John? He's been going through hell since he woke up. -GL'_

_'I'm already on my way. -SH'_ A lie in its own but I placed the electronic device in my pocket before a response could backfire my validity.

I certainly was not on my way yet, still stationary. I could go see John. It might be amusing, but I could also go home to the flat and perform one of the many experiments on my list or use three of my patches. John would be annoyed, but by that point it would be a three patch problem and I probably wouldn't necessarily care, much to his chagrin.

Sighing, I tapped on the shoulder of the cabbie. As much as the body parts at home beckoned me, John was living with me and therefore I must show some form of pretense affection.

The cabbie peered at me, round glasses glinting ever so slightly, "Destination, sir?"

I didn't hesitate.

"St. Bart's," I replied emotionlessly, turning my head to look outside the windows. The sun was just starting to set over the horizon to allow nightfall to reign. It was a explosion of color but that wasn't of my ideal attention. No, it was the girl that I had seen earlier. She looked slightly rustled from some sort of factor, a large male from her clothing state, but she still looked at me with a determined glare and nod.

Sparing a small smile, I watched as cars, benches, and buildings sped by within seconds. I didn't have long to wait before my arrival.

-  
>As I walked in to the hospital, the nurse at front quickly spotted me. Next to her was a woman who seemed quite stubborn in listening to the advised information given to her.<p>

Ah, she has good right I suppose. Single, recently broke up with a man for being an... alcoholic. Her clothes still smell faintly of whiskey I believe along with a few minuscule stains. She isn't into the disturbing beverage herself. She despises it, probably a family member who was one. The necklace on her neck represents her mother but not her father so her father was the alcohol abuser. Rough childhood, difficult love life, she has grown sour but something changed recently because she was distracted. Pupils slightly dilated, perhaps love interest.

I smirked as I walked up and I could feel the suspicion from the doctors glare. She didn't trust me but I was used to this.

"Yes sir? How may I help you?" The more oblivious nurse spoke. The doctor remained quiet for a little until I replied.

"I'm here to see Dr. John Watson."

Like a over-protective mother hen, the doctor immediately put her thick barriers up, it was rather annoying to watch this little display of obvious emotion. I wonder if John knows of his recently acquired infatuation.

"And who might you be?"

"His... friend," I spoke matter of fact.

Her eyes narrowed at my minuscule hesitation, "And what might this friend's name be?"

I rolled my eyes, "Please. Your eyes and the way you are acting shows that you already know who I am, or at the very least suspect who I could be. Nonetheless, I suppose I could humor you. The name is Sherlock Holmes. Now, may I be directed to John Watson's room or will I need to use other methods?"

The female looked agitated from my response but nodded begrudgingly as she motioned for me to follow. Silently obeying, I walked side by side with her until a certain voice drifted to my ears. It was familiar, very familiar.

Turning my head, I could see that the love-struck doctor could sense this as well.

At this point, I didn't need the searing doctors glares to direct me to the room because i knew exactly where to go from the melancholy voice that drifted through my mind like satin almost.

It was Johns.

**_John POV_**  
><em>-15 minutes prior to Sherlock's intervention -<em>

I didn't have to wait long for my request to be fulfilled, which was nice. The glances from Lestrade and the minor interruptions of the heart beat monitor was beginning to drive me to fidgeting.

I was anxious to say the least. It wasn't just from my mental disruptions but also from just the overall tension and feel in this room as if something was going to break, like a mirror was going to shatter to a million pieces. It was deafening and strangling and a repetitive factor was something I didn't need. It would be practically another default flaw in my altered persona. The guitar was the only item that would restrain the madness gripping my throne to pieces. Thank god Sarah was able to be the delivery of that said item.

Sarah came back quickly with a guitar in hand, "will this do?"

To be honest, the instrument looked much worse for wear, but I wasn't going to say anything of the sort. I was not going to be rude to a doctor that has charge over my healing. It went against my morals, one of many. Instead I nodded and accepted the guitar, my hands tuning the strings deafly.

I didn't even know the doctor remained until I heard her voice ring through the air once more.

"Anything else I could be of service?"

I looked up at her and I noticed the slight flushed cheeks and smiled. She was trying to be nice, that was all. Nobody could have a crush on a broken soldier as I. A crushed toy, a cracked mirror, a tainted glass: I was all of these and nobody could ever love any of them. Oh god you're staring to long, answer! Thinking it over, I shook my head, "no. I think I am good. Thank you doctor... er.. Sarah."

She smiled as I repeated her name, "alright."

I begun to tune the guitar with more attention as conversation recided. The instrument was far out of tune and needed a long string of adjustments. It wasn't hard at all, but definitely time consuming. Turn the knob and pluck the string; rotate more and move to the next. This was my pattern. A old habit my mum taught me long ago. I was so absorbed in it that I didn't even notice that Sarah hadn't left.

"I think we have all we need, thank you,"I heard Lestrade say and looked up to the reddened face of the doctor. She was certainly flustered and the second response didn't seem to help the situation.

"Ah... right," she nodded before quickly scuttling out of the quarters. Lestrade looked at me with a raised brow. I didn't know the man long but I definitely knew that look. It was the "how can you be blind?" look.

"Yeah, I believe you have a crush."

I laughed, finished with tuning the worn instrument, "I doubt it. She's only very good at her job. There is a difference."

Lestrade rolled his eyes, "I may not be aware of everything but I do know when someone isn't just 'really nice' to you."

"And?" I added with a grin.

"And the way she was trying to remain in the room as long as possible just to hear you play was making me uncomfortable. It was like she wanted to burn me to ash."

"Oh shut up," I laughed briefly, "Besides, she's out of my league anyways."

Lestrade looked as he was about to retaliate but at the quick plucking of my stiffened fingers, he got quiet and watched in open amazement as I warmed up my chords. Little exercises and practices to retrain my numbed, calloused digits for a song I will eventually play. I would mess up a few times but It was so unseen that I was able to cover it efficiently. Within a few moments I was ready, but still scaled the bridge until I had a song in mind.

After maybe a minute or two of me doing this, I stopped and looked up to the inspector and was reflected back with awe. The bashful attitude that gripped me then was instant as my face reddened to the same shade the doctor held previously.

"How long have you been playing?" He spoke with a open mouth.

I tilted my head from side to side, "since I was 16 but only until I joined the military. Afterward, none at all until maybe a few months ago."

A whistle, "you have talent. I will give you that much, can you sing as well?"

"Not as well as I care to say," I admitted sheepishly, "but I still do so anyways."

He responded by rolling his eyes and muttering under his breath, "So you probably sing like an idol more than likely." I heard this but ignored it as he added more loudly.

"Can you give me an example?"

I looked up at him with raised brows, "It depends on the theme."

After considering this response, or at least he looked as if he was, he spoke with a light sense of sarcasm, "Let's do something simple. Love, eh?"

I chuckled, "Love?"

"Yeah, it's easy is it not? At least, it is the music that is most produced in this world." I could feel the bitterness behind his words but kept my lips sealed from a question. It's not my business, not my area.

I shook my head, knocking the curiosity from my mind, "unless you are in love it's practically impossible without making it bittersweet."

"Then do that."

I straightened my back a bit at his response.

"Huh?" I blinked.

"Do bittersweet. I haven't heard much of those and to be honest it seems more interesting than a plain sickly love story."

Nodding slowly, I chewed on my bottom lip and surfed through my music database in my head. Not love, but the requisition of one. A meloncholy sort with twinges and tweaks of heart ache. Something memorable. Something that is decent. Ah... there.

I smiled, "I might have the right song then."

"That quickly?" He rose his eyebrows.

"I wrote it before being drafted," I confessed, "but it was one of my bests personally." I was honestly surprised that I still remembered the lyrics. Such a old song but it held a touch of familiarity I treasured greatly.

"Then let's hear it," Lestrade nudged, smiling.

I nodded and placed the guitar in a comfortable position. After a brief hesitation, I started strumming.

I will admit, Lestrade was the perfect person to play a piece for. He was quiet and transfixed, never uttering a word. It was flattering to say the least and strengthened my voice as I began to sing.

_"One went out at a bus stop in Edinburgh  
>One went out in an english park<br>One went out in a nightclub when I was fifteen  
>Little lights in my heart<em>

_One went out when I lied to my mother  
>Said the cigarettes she found were not mine<br>One went out within me now I smoke like a chimney  
>Its getting dark in this heart of mine<br>Its getting dark in this heart of mine_

_We're born with millions of little lights shining in the dark  
>And they show us the way<br>One lights up  
>Every time you feel love in your heart<br>One dies when it moves away_

_One went out in the backstreets of Manchester  
>One went out in an airport in Spain<br>One went out I've no doubt when I grew up and moved out  
>Of the place where the boy used to play<em>

_One went out when uncle Ben got his tumour  
>We used to fish and I fish no more<br>Though he will not return  
>I know one still burns<br>On a fishing boat off the new jersey shore  
>On a fishing boat off the new jersey shore<em>

_We're born with millions of little lights shining in the dark  
>And they show us the way<br>One lights up  
>Every time we feel love in our hearts<br>One dies when it moves away_

_We're born with millions of little lights shiny in our hearts  
>And they die along the way<br>Till we're old and we're cold  
>And lying in the dark<br>Cos they'll all burn out one day  
>They'll all burn out one day<br>They'll all burn out one day  
>They'll all burn out one day"<em>

The song drifted through my lips like I sang it only yesterday. It wasn't just the fact that I remembered the words like the back of my hand, but more so the flow it produced, the brief moment of tranquility that doused me like morning's rain. This was why I enjoyed the guitar. Not for its beautiful melodies or the awed expressions of passerbys. Not for the distinct detachment I felt. No, it was for the moment of euphoria that would shine on my mind like the sun breaching over the dawning sun, as poetic and cliché it may be.

The melody ended too soon. As the last twinkling notes slipped through my flying fingers, I could feel the shadow of demented insanity cradle the remnants once more.

When I let my voice falter at the end, not for the effect at all but just for the emotion that washed over me as I sang the song, I closed my eyes. Euphoria was displaced with dysphoria. An internal battle that would forever hold me in the middle until I keel to either side. It was weird, having emotion latch onto me so much, unusual even.

Silence was as evident as fog in mornings. It was almost visible as my vocals were cut off. I heavily disliked it immediately. I suppose it was my fault on second thought.

The song ended on a sad note so I didn't expect a applause of any sorts, not that I wanted one anyways. Attention wasn't always the aspect I craved. I prefer smiles and small claps. Of course, at this moment I got neither and it disturbed me. Was I awful? Did I not meet up with the expectations given? The panic rose until I doused it with reality. No. Absurd. This shouldn't bother you in the slightest.

When I looked up though I was surprised to see not only Lestrade but Sherlock and Sarah. Sarah and Lestrade gawked at me practically while Sherlock... well I couldn't decipher a damn thing in his features to be blunt. A statue really.

A minute passed by with no change. Okay... This is a tad awkward I will admit.

"Um..." I smiled sheepishly, setting the instrument aside, "I'm sorry if I made any noise. I didn't mean to, kinda got carried away..."

"Nonsense!" Lestrade and Sarah responded at the same time with rivaled volumes. I blinked back and felt the smile grow into a light chuckle. I was surprised to say the least, but at this moment my eyes seemed to have drifted after another individual. A tall man with a Belstaff coat and a emotionless mask plastered to his face. I wasn't a blind fool in the slightest. A smidgen of a pleased smirk laced through his stilled lips and I could feel my gaze intensify as I tried to pin point other details.

Perhaps it was my need to try and decipher this detective or just the annoyance that he could be so cool or whatever, because I observed every ounce of that face with vigilance. My mistake of course.

After what felt like seconds to me, I heard a cough beside me and jumped, looking at Lestrade with a questioningly stare.

"Perhaps the doctor and I should converse outside while you two _discuss_ evidence," he murmured slowly, looking between Sherlock and I.

"But he isn't-!" Sarah began, but Lestrade swiftly dragged her out. Before shutting the door he peered in at us and added, "I'll be back in 5 minutes." It was the warning a parent gave to his daughter and boyfriend being left in the house for a few hours. Oh god, please no. Just a few minutes ago he was practically singing my apparent crush from the doctor and now this? What is he? Some sort of disguised love doctor or something?

Yeah, _detective inspector Lestrade, the only consulting love doctor in the world_. It _definitely_ has a ring in it let me tell you.

As the door shut softly but threateningly, I felt my face redden slightly as they fell back on Sherlock's rather intimidating gaze.

"What was that about?" I decided to mask it off as confusion. I didn't need Sherlock of all people to tease me for the thoughts my mind jumped to immediately as Lestrade uttered those words. Thank god he isn't a mind reader or we would all be doomed to succumb to his antics.

The detective in speaking seemed distracted as I asked this though. Was he thinking of the case? Of Moriarty? Of this entire scenario I got myself into? Biting my lip nervously at the last thought, I decided to risk the danger and waved my hand to catch his attention.

Sherlock raised a brow, "Hmm...?"

"The look Lestrade gave as he walked off." What else could I be talking about?

He stared blankly before nodding, "oh. I suppose that was for the intense staring you seemed to have on me."

Intense staring? Oh god, was I staring at him that long? I swear I wanted to scream when I felt realization dawn on me. I'm not bloody gay! Why- How- What information could possibly have proved otherwise save for the staring that was purely platonic as friends, not romantic interests!

Still...

I flushed, "was it that obvious?"

He shrugged, "I'm afraid so." How could he brush it off so cool and placid?

Placing my thumb and index finger on the bridge of my nose, I groaned, "I swear. One second Lestrade is chastising the non-existant crush the doctor has on me and the next he thinks I'm going to jump you. Where does he come up with these things? Do others believe this as well? Oh god, people are going to talk."

"That's all they ever do," he muttered absently before adding, "oh and it's true."

"What is?"

"The attraction from your doctor. Obvious."

Sighing I looked up at the detective (who was far too smug might I add!) and prepared myself, "how so? I saw no clear signs."

The stare I received was not of one to mock my intelligence but of one that was in disbelief for my apparent ignorant nature, "I fear that is not due to my abilities but to your own oblivious personality. If Lestrade was able to notice such, then clearly you should have noticed as well, but I suppose your keen eye falters on romanticism compared to crime scenes," he cleared his throat briefly before continuing his rant, "she's single. Recently deceased mother and an alcoholic abuser for a father. She doesn't drink much If at all and spends more time at work than at home. Oh, she also recently broke up with a man; have been together for perhaps a year or two. Once again, alcohol."

It was gone in a minute, the life story he exposed to me. So quick and decisive. It was bewildering, but at the same time fascinating. Wait a minute...

Is that a pompous look he is giving me? I declare it is! Oh I hope he sods off. Forget the moment of awe I was stuck in, I was now in the frequent phase of annoyance.

"How can you bloody tell all of that?" I spoke incredulously.

Taking the seat that Lestrade had briefly inhabited, Sherlock replied as if bored with my prodding, "Come now John, if I were to tell you everything my clever trick would be exposed. A magician never tells his secrets."

"But your _not_ a magician," I pointed out, "your just a man with an over-sized amount of knowledge and an egotistical mind!"

"All the same," he assured.

Resisting the urge to throw something at him, I decided to drop it, "Fine. Do as you will," letting air leave my lungs slowly I added, "why are you here?"

"The case." It was so quick and brief that I hardly heard any sort of emotion in the mentioning.

"Yes," I spoke slowly, "what about it?"

Sherlock leaned on the edge of the bed with his hands stuck together in some sort of prayer looking gesture. After a while of silence, him thinking and I watching, he opened his eyes to look at me. It was like a blank conceited mask staring back at me with the stare he protruded.

"I've been researching Moriarty-" I froze at the name for a split second before regaining my breath, "and it seems he has quite the record. Of course I already knew this. However, it seems he is a cunning man so he won't reveal himself unless he wants to be seen. Give me a few days and I can pinpoint him."

"Ah, okay. Wait, where were you?" I rotated my form to watch his chest slowly lift and fall in slow breaths. His brows were furrowed at my questions, though I did have a right to ask considering it is indirectly his fault that I am stuck here.

"I was doing as you asked. I was finding Moriarty, although since I had little to none to work with, I had to visit my own sources."

"And those would be?" I prompted.

"Absolutely none of your adamant concern," he smirked, "especially since you have to recover." He was mocking me. The bloke was seriously using my injury as an excuse!

"Oh sod off," I scoffed, "you know quite well that I can handle this perfectly fine."

"Mentally?" He spoke softly, looking down. It was almost guilty in the way he uttered the phrase. His eyes downcast and a fraction of concern, albeit briefly. I blinked at his reaction, but before I could analyze it, his stare returned with yet another veil.

I've spent too long watching him. If I were to reply now he will still suspect my deficiencies. But I can't say nothing because then it will result in the same thing. This is what I get for trying to blend back into civilization. This is what I get, but while I'm digging me a hole, I might as well give a excuse to go by.

"Ah. Mentally I'm perfectly fine as well," I lied, "the doctors checked me out as lucky with only a minor concussion along with my injuries..."

"Liar." It wasn't an accusation but a verdict. Solid. Concrete.

My voice threatened to return to its small insecure status but I choked it down, "what? I'm not lying! The only injuries I have is a concussion, a broken wrist that is almost mended, and an ankle injury that might leave me with a limp but i doubt it! Nothing is wrong."

The gaze Sherlock gave me was one that I couldn't help but to cringe from, "Do you take me for an idiot Doctor Watson?"

I shook my head, "no, but-"

"And you know the limitless qualities I can determine by only watching your movements and glancing at your clothing and accessories."

"Yes, but-"

"Then why do you refrain from telling me of your defects? I have fully given off any of mine, if any truly existed, and yet you remain so secretive of your own. We are flatmates are we not?"

I felt my walls crumble a little, "Sherlock, that's mean. Don't hold that to me." He was practically indirectly using his request as flatmates that took me off the streets as a motive.

"I wouldn't have to if you would just tell me the truth," he spoke with a thick amount of annoyance.

"I am speaking the truth!" I shouted, flinging my hands In the air. The lie came so fluid to my tongue now, like it did then. It was so easy to say that. I was fine. I had nothing wrong. I was perfectly, utterly, without a doubt in my mind, fine.

Sherlock glared at me relentlessly, waiting for me to cower but I didn't give in. It must have been a full minute that we were like this before I changed the subject. I could feel my walls whither and the last thing i needed was the detective noticing it.

Falling back to the bed, I faltered a little and let my volume drop, "So what have we on the murder?"

"Hmm...?" He blinked, clearly absorbed in trying to sort my lie.

"Alice's murder? Do we know who the killer is?"

The detective rolled his eyes, side tracked, "of course I know who the killer is. The correct term is the initiator for he isn't the actual murderer, but he is the one that did it. No, this person is someone close to her. Some one that she would have allowed in so readily; a person she wouldn't suspect."

"Long-distance relatives?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and closed his eyes. Okay so I was wrong. Let's try this again.

"Friends?"

Turning his head back to me he nodded, a smile playing on the corners of his lips, "more probable. If you remember correctly, along with the death of Ms. Alice, there were also the bodies of her friends. One male and one female. Clearly this wasn't the female. The directory at which the victim was tortured and killed meant the aggressor was taller than she was. The bruises on her skin are connected to fat thumbs, a difference from her female friend's slim phalanges. Those with the consideration of the died black hair on her clothing and the blood under her nails matching the to claw marks on the male make it fairly easy to decipher the killer. Do you have an assumption?"

I blinked and uttered with surprise, "So it was her friend? The lad that appeared to be as scarred and cold as the rest? But he's dead! That makes no sense. Completely-"

"Logical," Sherlock finished with a flash of a mocking glare before settling to indifference, "now, why would Mr. Daniels murder his supposed friend? Only three reasons stand in place. He could-"

"Mr. Daniels?" I interrupted with skepticism.

"The male companion John, pay attention," he huffed before continuing, "As I was saying, the first could be that it was a love quarrel but seeing as her preference is otherwise and the ring on his finger indicating a happy marriage, it clearly wasn't that. Secondly, a possible money and fame scenario. That possibility on its own is incredibly faulty. She was taking several jobs, undeniably both financing a low wage budget. She doesn't have any money to saunter nor does she harbor any fame to process. A normal person she is. That leads us to the last option."

"And that would be?" I punctually added with vigilance. If I wasn't obscured and tied down to this uncomfortable cot I would be by his side drinking in every word with awe and amazement. Not like a little kid. Certainly not. I'm not a toddler in any way but a grown adult. His fascinating deductions shouldn't make me feel like it's Christmas morning every single bloody time.

Nonetheless, I had no say in what attracted my attention. I'm glad it was occupied though. If it wasn't, I would be tormented and broken in process. At least his absurdities distracted the shadows from gripping the pieces already shattered. I don't know what Sherlock would do If he knew my state nor do I want to find out.

"A bitter farewell," my mind crawled back to give its adamant attention to the only consulting detective, "Moriarty would need a motive to get Mr. Daniels to perform his dirty work without making it look like the real murderer did it. An argument took place, more probable than not since the shuffling around the room hinted the lack of familiarity. Alice clearly knew her own flat so it must be male but why would he not be there for a while? He works locally and his family is all here in London so it only leaves the bitterness of friendship. Think it over John. Moriarty twisted the memory In his head so it appeared he wasn't at fault. He made him angry, full of rage and rampage. He got to the flat and immediately did his act. I mustn't go Into details since we already know the evidence in that department."

"But he is dead," I reminded. The fact wouldn't leave my mind and seemed the only flaw in his scene.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and mimicked with a little higher pitched voice, "but he is dead- yes I know he is dead John. Chemical defect on that part. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a more viscious motivator. He was full of distaste for his friend, but after the adrenaline and masked hate dissolved into fatigue, he saw what he did. That is where love came in. Guilt. Depression. Fear. It all ran through his head as he realized he killed his friend over some silly minuscule argument they more than likely had at the least six months prior. It became a motivator for his attempt to leave, but of course the other friend had to arrive, the female. After walking in, she saw the body and Isaac and was about to scream when he used a gun- a silencer being heavily used. He was going to leave. He was but he had just murdered his only two friends. What was left to do?"

"But he had a family!" I interjected.

"Whom he obviously didn't want to get caught in this dilemma. He didn't want them to know. How foolish and odd. Nonetheless he took the friend he shot in the bedroom, arranged Alice's corpse for suicide, and went to the bedroom himself. He didn't kill himself. It was done by someone else."

"What?" I felt my jaw drop and adjusted my expression before adding, "how can you know that? He had the gun in his palms! "

"An act. He was going to do it if the other observer hadn't done it. Obviously some sort of law official was near and they thought that he was taking too long. They shot him to quicken it's pace. Evidence was shown with his hands."

"His hands," I deadpanned.

"Precisely. He is right handed so why would the bullet enter his left, inexperienced side and exit the more used? Illogical. Also there was a puncture in the window, too small for the likes of the uneducated Scotland Yard. Following the directory, I found the bullet in the corner of the room."

My mind went blank with all the information rummaging through it. It was logical and connected to what we had scene.

He was ingenious. Absolutely brilliant.

...

...Why did such a extraordinary man have to be such a bloke? Arrogant and snobby when he figured something else somebody else missed or glanced over. If it wasn't for that, he would probably be more likable though I don't think that is his forte in the slightest.

"So you have figured out the whole murder?" I asked to be certain he wasn't pulling my chain.

"Yes. It really wasn't that hard, the easiest one thus far."

I rolled my eyes. Whatever.

Sighing, I tapped my fingers on my leg with some random beat in my head. This went on for perhaps a minute before the silence strangled me and I had to break its hold.

"Well now what are we going to do?"

"We?"

I furrowed my brows, "did I say something wrong?"

He smirked, "if I'm correct, you are currently confined to this service."

I huffed, "I'm sure you could get me out."

"Oh, without a doubt," he murmured nonchalantly, "but your injuries will hinder your ability."

I was about to reply about how much of a bloody idiot he was being when Lestrade walked in, yelling at the doctor, who was trailing behind him with jabbing fingers, "I know he needs to rest, but we need the mate. I'm sure he is ready to leave anyways by your service."

Sarah snarled back, "he needs to let his wounds mend! Mentally and physically! Looking at murder scenes and straining his limp is not the right way to say he is resting! He needs to stay here or at home. God how can you be so blind?"

Sherlock and I glanced at each other with raised brows before glancing at the arguing duo. I knew he was finding this a tad annoying but mostly delightful in some sort of way. He wasn't going to break the argument, but I wasn't going to let it go on. It was already creating symptoms of a migraine.

"Excuse me!" I yelled while waving my hands to catch their attention, "but what on earth could you two be yelling about?"

The silence they presented was amiable until the floodgates opened and point of views were written like an endless monologue.

I could feel a headache bloom behind my temples as they both competed for my utmost attention. Children. They were both reduced to children right now and I was the bloody mother hen of it all. Well this ideal mother was done with all this nonsense. After a few seconds of their squabble I used both of my hands to quiet them down to death glares and childish threats. Oh god grow up.

Sighing wryly, I pinched the bridge of my nose hard. Seriously? Now of all times? Letting go, I silently observed the two adults in front of me and spoke slowly, "now, what is the problem?"

As expected, they began yelling at the top of their lungs once more to get to me. No. Just no. I can't deal with this right now. Before I could control the temper rising, I snapped, "Shut up!"

Everything went silent, but it wasn't a silence I treasured. It was a quiet scene I wanted someone to disrupt just to keep the gazes of everyone off of me.

I didn't mean to break. I normally didn't break at all. I was known for my ability to keep a level head despite the stress and tension. My cool exterior was usually well placed and never tested. It has changed. It seemed that after this whole... experience though that my line of annoyances I could take lowered considerably.

Sherlock raised a brow at me again in mild amusement and curiosity while Sarah and Lestrade stared at me like ashamed children being scolded by their mother. Had I not been done with this whole ordeal I would have laughed at their expressions. It was clear to both of them that I was not in the joking mood though. Lestrade was bashful while Sarah stared pointedly at Lestrade as if to say "see? This is why he can't leave! He is mentally unstable and will be for months!" It was just so tiring and the mild drugs in my system didn't aid the ability to keep calm.

God I'm done with hospitals... and cases... and a certain consulting detective. It's only been possibly a little over a week by now but I was already twitching to leave. Will I? Of course not. My attention was now dragged to this mindset and scenery due to the intriguing interest and the adrenaline rush. _Great._

Sherlock watched this event with a small grin on his face as I lectured the two slowly, "tell me what's all the ruckus is about," they both started once more but I added immediately, "one at a time children!"

The glares they expressed could kill as they dared each other to go before them.

Lestrade sighed and muttered, "Ladies first."

Sarah sneered in his direction before composing herself and glancing at my tense form, "It seems that the DI wants to release you from the hospital for unauthorized reasons-"

"It's for a bloody case!" Lestrade interrupted but I held up my hand with a stern expression. Lestrade backed down with a few mutters and grumbles.

"As I was saying before being rudely interrupted, he wants to remove you and yet you still need to rest and heal considering the circumstances. Truama is not the best state of mind to be looking at bodies with, definitely not. You haven't even gone through therapy yet," I cringed at the occupation a little, "obviously it is the right decision to stay here from a few days to a week longer, just until you are well. If it wasn't for the fact that you are a fellow comrade in medical knowledge I would enforce the time. Solving cases full of blasphemy and absurdities is just idiotic in my opinion."

Her little rant was full of her medical morals, but it was kind of based on just that. It was the part I was certain of. I suppose had I not been a doctor myself I would have listened to her, but I am a doctor... ex-doctor... and I know my limits in this situation, even if my mind is rotated upside down. I understand my lacking in stability and my deficiency in validity. I understood it and her rephrasing it did not aid her side of the story at all.

Turning to Lestrade, I nodded and he took a deep breath before reporting briskly, "I know you need to rest, I understand that, but we have a murder to solve and Sherlock won't work with anyone besides yourself-"

The murder? But Sherlock just solved this one without doing anything. What murder is there if it already deciphered? I suppose one involving the report of the case, but that isn't Sherlock's criteria at all. Solving the case, proving his intelligence, seemed to be the only motivator in aiding the relentless crimes from what I observed.

"Sherlock's already solved the murder though. Why would you need me when-," I started to comment but Sherlock narrowed his eyes in curiosity and I shut up immediately. I know that look. I know it so well because it was the look he gave me before deducting my life before my very eyes.

What is he possibly thinking? I swear, sometimes he thinks too much. Then again, he thinks into all the right areas. Everything he thinks over always seemed to have valuable content and even more valuable results. He's not a day dreamer, but a cunning and clever observer.

I saw the smile on his face as he glanced at me briefly and back at the awaiting detective inspector.

"There's another murder," he murmured lowly and Lestrade turned around and affirmed his statement. He didn't look shocked in the slightest of the deduction, mildly amused in fact.

"Where?" The detective asked.

"Downtown London."

"Same crime aspects?"

"Yes."

"Nothing your Scotland Yard could notice? Not that any of you could see anything unless it bit you on the nose." The comment certainly was not of the joking sort, but Lestrade still chuckled slightly despite the insult given. He nodded once more and it seemed more curt than before.

Sherlock did a 180 as he went from looking at the window to the door and back at the doctor, "well... This has been very... interesting, but I advise that you let our doctor go. Besides, I'm sure he is as tired of this place as I am. Are you ready John?"

He didn't need to ask twice.

I nodded and Sarah stared at me dumbfounded, "John-"

I shook my head, "Sorry Sarah, I understand your concerns but he is right... As always... and I would like to be released right now if possible."

She stared at me for a moment, a diagnostic stare really, and checked every bone of my body. I steeled my nerves so she didn't see the mental exiguous mind I held currently. She landed on my eyes for a mere moment, almost pleading, before taking the clip board at the end of the bed.

With a relentless sigh, Sarah gave the okay and within a few minutes everything was cleared.

About time too. I could feel the boredom that quivered under the detectives feathers begin to affect my own. My feet, well foot since one was currently aching, was itching to be on the ground and walking. I could feel the wish to get onto the case spur a slight adrenaline rush which swiftly prompted me to all but jump out the cot I was chained to.

I should have known better. I'm a bloody doctor. I should have realized that being on medications, in a cot, and in a hospital for perhaps a day or two would set off my balance. I should have known this, but did I? Of course not. My mind was elsewhere.

I thought l was ready for the violent world again, but apparently I can't even get passed the floor tile. As I placed my feet on the ground and stood, the impact caused pain to shoot up my leg and I could feel the ground enclosing in.

The only thing that flashed through my mind was that I was going to be cursed to lay in that rustling mattress much longer than I would like if my face made contact with the cold tile. I thought this instead of noticing the black flash that appeared beside me in almost an instant.

Strong hands grabbed me before the tile made contact with my skin and my breath caught. Surprise was obviously on my face as I was adjusted to an upright position. Turning my head, I blinked as I realized it was Sherlock who must have been the farthest person from my event.

As my brows furrowed he smirked and muttered a low response under his breath.

"Careful doctor. We don't want to keep you here any longer than necessary." What?

I blinked and stood slowly, hand on Sherlock's arm briefly before retaining balance, "ah... Thank you."

Sherlock only backed away slowly as my clothing was given to me and I went to the restroom to change into more comfortable rags. My stumbling was monitored by everyone until I was safely inside the private compartment.

Within a few minutes I was out and we were out of the hospital. This relief appeared to be shared by the both of us as a large grin materialized on my face and small smile made itself known on his. Hailing a cab, he held the door open for me and motioned ever so gentleman like for me to enter. I rolled my eyes. Gentleman like my arse. Nonetheless I entered and relaxed in the much more appealing cushions on the cab as Sherlock seated next to me. It never appeared to me that we were glad to be going to a murder. We were twitching our fingers and standing on our toes just because something less boring had appeared.

God what was I turning into? Once again I was in a cab. Once again we were going to a unnatural decease. Once again we were heading to see another dead body, another lost soul. At this point I didn't know if drugs would be worse than this or not.

I expected our past differences to be left alone. I expected such but it would only go for normal people. This detective was sure as hell not normal.

Of course, Sherlock wasn't going to let it go.

After sparing a few glances in my direction, he blinked ahead briefly before rotating to face me. His brows were furrowed I'd imagine from his tone. It seemed confused and interested, but I was tired with being tested and experimented on from not just everyone but him as well. Moriarty. Hospitals. This detective. I didn't want to explain anything, my mental stability almost breached and crying for a rest.

"You got angry back there."

_Clearly_. I wanted to tell him this, but instead murmured with a small amount of humor, "_great_ deduction there yeah."

I didn't need to look at him to know he was probably scrutinize my response. No reply was given on his part, but the silence was driving me mad with his inaudible questions. Things like _"why?", "mental conditions?", "hiding something?"_ It was squeezing a chain around my throat to the point that I decided to utter something else to fix it, to loosen the links of mental metal.

The ghost of sleep deprivation was beginning to weigh itself on my mind as I considered what to say. Wait, what am I doing? I'm over thinking this. Just repeat what you said in different wording. That should suffice for his insufferable antics for now.

Raising my contemplating head, I glanced in his direction and sighed, "yeah. I didn't mean to."

Sherlock seemed suspicious of my face and I looked away from his view. Straightening up in the uncomfortable cabby seats, he spoke gingerly, "you have changed. I'm not blind and you of all people should recognize this by this point. You're a complete idiot," at my surprised stare he mended, "Don't worry, everyone is, but that's besides besides the point.

"I could tell you were surprised meaning you normally kept your anger intact. You're a soldier that is situated around showing little to know effects in the capers of other individuals. You were even undaunted over my habits. Now, you have changed due to an adjustment in your mind set from the trauma you have gone through. You can't lie to me John. I know you're hiding your conditions."

Bloody hell. He is never going to drop it. Who am I kidding; it's Sherlock Holmes I am talking about. He's stubborn and a long list of other certain words I won't speak of.

Play it off John. Just play it off.

"What conditions," I uttered with exhaustion, "nothing is wrong with me. I just got angry from the drugs they had on me. Nothing more."

His expression made me cringe almost. It shouted the one word that haunted me constantly since I came back.

_Liar._

I could see the twist in emotion as he struggled to regain his composure he briefly resided.

_"John-"_

When I opened my mouth, his retaliation briefly ceased, awaiting my lies. He expected me to tell him more excuses and in all reality I would have. I would have streamed a long list of reasons why I am changed, but Morpheus's spell was beginning to settle and the energy was slowly leaving my form. Lies flitted from my mind leaving only one option left. This time the truth came instead of minor misgivings.

"You want to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier. I killed people. I will snap and get angry at points I find childish. I'm weak. I'm still adjusting to the civilian life I have yet to become accustomed to."

My reply was so soft, the thick wall making it normal crumbling. Sherlock noticed this but kept to himself for once, probably noticing the way my head was nodding off. It didn't mean that he would stop with my reply though. If anything, he would have the last word.

"You were a doctor," he replied just as quietly. His gaze turned away from my form, following the blurred trees. He was certain I wouldn't reply the git. Not that I could blame him, but still.

Looking out the window at the dull scenery passing me by, my mouth opened just barely. Even as the cars and roads blended into one confusing palette a small breath left my lips, the nap that hung over my head crashing down, "I had bad days. Too many to count."

* * *

><p><em>The song was All The Little Lights by Passenger.<em>

_Did you like this chapter my dears? I suppose my favorite part will always be the ending and Lestrade and Sarah's childish fight. ^^_

_Hm.. chapter 10 is in the making, writing I mean, so it may take a while. I am working on a one shot for you dears as an experiment and a apology for my irregular updates. Look forward to that because it will be different for sure. _

_I hope you enjoyed the chapter! ^^ If you didn't, I'm sorry and I will try my hardest in the next chapter!_

_Review and critique, all is appreciated!_


	10. Chapter 10

_I'm going to start off by apologizing for the delay on this chapter. I blame the Writer's block as well as my love for other fandoms. I have been placing so many writing projects on my plate as of late. I'm working on a Hannibal one shot, a Hetalia mini-series, and perhaps one or two Johnlock and and very lengthy Mystrade. I'm also working on two colabs with some friends. It's suicide. But, I'm happy to be writing. I love to do it and it's keeping me occupied. ^^_

_I will have to mention that I am getting sick lately. Just a cold -wracking coughs, aches, headaches - but since I abhor medicine and never take the stuff, even if I am severely sick, I have a while to go. On top of that, my sleep patterns are severely erratic. I sleep 20 hours, up for 3, sleep for 17, up for 2, sleep for 18, up for 5. It's weird. _

_To put it lightly, I have been sleeping a lot for in the day then the night. To emphasize this, I will mention that I have spoken to my father for the first time in a week yesterday. That's right. A week. And we live in the same house and have not changed our routine. My sleeping patterns always inhibit me from being awake when he is. Honestly, the first thing he said to me yesterday was, "I knew I had an elder daughter but I thought she was claimed by vampires." ^^" _

_In this chapter, I will mention one of my side antagonists. It took so long to create her and introduce her. I didn't know how I should write her to be. Then I thought of some of my fandoms in the past and created her using the bad characteristics I despise most. _

_Another murderer is mentioned as well, appointed by the lovely Moriarty of course~ It's only a matter of time until they meet him though and when they do... that will be the most entertaining chapter ever. God... I love Moriarty's theatrics. Adore them even._

_Lastly, I would like to thank coleys17. I would also like to thank my John - no, she's not named that, but she acts exactly like him and to her, I'm her own Sherlock. It's complicated haha... Anyways, both of them have been helping me through my Writer's Block so I would like to thank them for that since I honestly do not know how I would have gotten out of it._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock._

* * *

><p><em>Ch. 10<em>

_John's POV_

_I suppose it was the mentioning of her name that initiated what I dreamt up in that cab. If I knew that I wouldn't have thought of her at all, but it was too late. My mind recalled a domino effect which resulted in the remembrance. I didn't want to dream of her nor did I treasure any thoughts it created. Bad memories with a even more terrible woman. They say all things beautiful are not all pure and this woman, the Raven, certainly was as far fetched as one could get. The poison apple disguised as perfect, the knarly crow painted white…_

_"Filthy rubbish," I heard it before I felt the impact. A swift kick to knock me on my knees and to push the air out of my already sore lungs. Swinging my instrument case behind me, I braced myself for the damage I knew I would take just so the item I relished wouldn't be tainted physically._

_The pavement scratched at my jeans and where the holes were present, I could feel the blood begin to drain down my leg. It was warmer than my skin was from the onslaught of the harsh winds. As my face neared the same damaging ground, On habit, I used my hands to catch myself and felt the same treatment happen to their surface as the impact aided in only more scars. Scratches and messy crimson markings were beginning to form._

_This was nothing to be completely honest. I mean, yes, it was terrible to be pushed around as if you were worthless, but I have sustained harder injuries. Broken bones, cracked ribs, numerous bruises. Compared to that, a few scrapes and some minor blood was like tickling to me._

_It still didn't change the fact that the impact bloody hurt like hell._

_My knees stung painfully as well as the palms of my dirtied hands when I stood from the impact. I didn't mind it in the slightest, being treated as vermin. I have traveled these London alleys and streets constantly in the last few months. The consequences were almost invaluable since the list never ended, but what was I supposed to do about it? Besides, I had it coming._

_People really don't change too much when you leave for the military ranks. There were still the seducers, the psychopaths, the ignorant, and the naive or innocent that had to witness the madness. The type I held before me was the ignorant. Those mainly consisted of men considering it was mainly because they wished for some sort of praise. This was no different._

_I was used to the boastful husband or boyfriend kicking me aside to make the girl swoon. I was used to the scratches and aches. It was bound to happen. Hero complexes and everything. I let the abuse slide, eying my guitar and sighing with relief when not a scratch was given to the case. The locks were still intact and unscathed and the case was unchanged in its worn status. All was fine with me as long as my guitar was intact._

_If a speck of dirt or the most minuscule of scratches adorned its surface, then I would spare a glare. It may not seem that much, but compared to what I could do... it was almost mercy. I could do a lot worse, but I wasn't a vengeful psychopath. I was a veteran soldier, albeit dishonorable, but I no longer held the accurate trigger finger I was known for then. No, those days were over. Now, those circumstances rarely presented themselves. I was never violent, finding it never necessary just like now._

_The man was loudly boasting his supposed feat. The only thing missing in his exclamation was the hero costume and possibly some sort of cartoon symbols to make it complete. To be honest, it was annoying beyond compare, but all I could do was watch with contempt._

_After a moment, the girl in question came running to the man, blonde hair flowing behind her. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at the typical characteristics of her the stereotypical actions. Only in movies are couples really that way._

_Nonetheless, she still hugged him and all the normal, movieland scripts that truly don't exist._

_The girl next to the man giggled and got closer to him, cooing his bravery as they sauntered off. The rest of the crowd at the little, but busy, corner eyed me with sympathy and pity. Looking down at my hands, I felt them change into fists briefly before relaxing their stressed muscles._

_"Just ignore it. You have dealt with worse. You have withstood harsher hardships than this one. You have dealt with fallacious incidents even poorer than this and have lived with a much more morose scenario," I thought to myself as I wiped my blooded hands on the hem of my shirt, probably risking infection._

_Wouldn't that be grand._

_Oh the irony of a medic getting sick. I could feel my lips contort into a small smile before letting it falter._

_Dusting off my pants, I ignored the sting of exposed and raw skin meeting the material. Perhaps later I will rip some of my jumper to wrap the wounds. Sighing at the absurdity of it all, I went to the bench closest to the corner and sat down, placing my guitar case on the seat beside me._

_People continued to breeze past me like the encounter never happened. Again, I will now initiate the constant mantra of "I'm used to it". I only say it because it is honestly the truth, the cruel truth nonetheless. Nobody wanted to get involved in a dispute as that. They cared too much for reputation and looks._

_Well, when you're like me, you rarely care for reputation anymore unless it's the negative kind; the kind to get you in trouble._

_These people didn't want that so they kept to themselves. Nobody spared a glance as I opened the case. Nobody eyed my tuned guitar with interest. Not a single pair of eyes found myself, a discarded man on the streets, amiable or interesting in the slightest. I was just another shadow effectively disowned of its body._

_Allowing a single breath to materialize in the air, I watched it rise to invisibility as I retrieved the guitar. It's smooth shape, adjusted to my form, was cleaner than I was. Then again I rarely kept it long enough to get stains, dirt, or anything else. Play a song and walk away. It was a strict rule I followed so I wouldn't be tempted for anything else._

_There were a few exceptions, but only a few. If a man or woman gave enough for a drink, pack your things and find a new place. It was decent, but not the ideal spot to be at at that moment. If they gave you enough for a meal or more, play two more songs as a thank you and farewell. If not taken by some other homeless individual the next day, go back to the same spot. Maybe you'll get lucky for the same treatment twice. It rarely happens, but small hopeful arrangements like these keep me from falling to the bottle. It was a routine that has aided me throughout this few months of starvation and adjustment._

_The lack of food never bothered me. It's not that I didn't want to eat, because I suppose some part of me did, but the fact that I didn't see it as necessary. The morsel of food or the droplet of water has yet to remind my conscious of the sustenance required to keep me moving. Any food that passed through my lips was experienced as a brief taste of ambrosia before falling to the dull remnants of cardboard. Time has gone by where my once tense muscles has eaten itself savagely, leaving my ribcage open for anything of nutrient-worth to pass through immediately and aiding me neutrally. With my past beckoning me to death and the present persuading the presence of a skeleton; the only time left is the future and by then I will all but accompany the apparition of the grim reaper._

_But that's another time, and hopefully, a wrong one._

_Plucking my fingers, I groaned when my sleeves of my jumper kept messing with the strings. I ignored it at first, valuing my health to my occupational habits, but a few minutes later, I found my other hand rolling up the sleeves just far enough for my digits to play fluidly. The cold was biting my skin like rabid dogs, but it was nothing compared to the annoyance of my own clothing inhibiting my playing._

_It's been going on for awhile now. For the past few weeks I have been rolling my sleeves just to play. No matter the temperature. I suppose that's my fault too though. Starvation doesn't exactly have any perks._

_My clothes hinder me now more than they protected me then. Back then, the thick jumper I wore kept me warm, kept me safe from most assaults whether physical or from the climate. Now, those boundaries have changed. The same jumper holds nothing more than an obstruction to catch on my strings. Clothing once filled with a living individual now empty with the ashes of vigilance._

_Sighing to the careless people walking by, I placed my numb fingertips on the tainted strings. Scaling the bridge softly, I awaited the stinging burn on my skeletal fingertips indicating a cut from the mixture of relentless cold and the slicing strings. Pain never reached me though. Only a dull ache resounding my past heartaches and my future heart throbs._

_After ceasing my pointless strumming, I sat there and looked up at the sky, pondering whether to remain with no melody to spare or to walk away with little to no one to care. My body wasn't craving food, but I had no plans today at all except to prepare for the freezing weather due tomorrow._

_It wasn't terrible, but with the stare of my wear and tear clothing, I was bound to get hypothermia. From what I saw it was coming in tomorrow with strong gusts and snow, but you can't predict weather. For all I knew, it could be here by this evening._

_I needed to play, I- no, my body will need a blanket or at the least a heavier jacket to survive any possible chances of hypothermia. I didn't want to get sick. Not now of all times. I had no way to cure myself if I got sick now. The little bird of Enzo would fly in too soon and carry my vitality with it on it's leaving._

_It was kind of annoying, worrying of so much since people not in this situation have it so easy. It almost makes one resentful._

_I shook my head to get rid of the thoughts._

_No, I can't think like that. Thinking pessimistic always will lead to a shorter life span in the scenario I'm in._

_So I do have motive to play. It's only to keep my life spinning in fate's wheel, but all the same I suppose. Harry would never forgive me if I died. Not after mum and the way I left._

_Well, that is, if she even remembered me. The thick fog of drunken imageries and fantasies had claimed her so strangely that I have yet to hear of her lucidity._

_My fingers kept plucking aimlessly as I kept falling back to my past, remembering the arguments, the accusations, the verdicts._

_I was so shrouded in my own mind that I didn't notice the little patter of a child's eager curiosity nor the little head that stopped in front of me._

_The said child stood there for a while, thinking I could see them, but it all actuality, I wasn't really paying attention._

_Somebody tapped me, bringing me out of my haze with such a start that the person jerked away immediately, almost falling over in the process. Looking up, it was a little boy, no older than 6. His golden curls circled his face and pale blue eyes. He was smiling at me, despite his previous fumble, but I noticed the furrow children get when they sensed the distress of others. Somebody else gave a slight cough and peering up, I noticed a woman that must have been his mother. She didn't appear frightened, scared, nor pitiful of my situation. Her eyes expressed a different emotion. It was a look of understanding and of purity almost that I suspected no one held these days._

_With another tap, I looked back down at the little boy as he spoke, "Mister? Why are you all alone?"_

_Here comes the "why" onslaught. Oh well._

_I smiled, "Oh, just waiting for a friend." I said it lowly and averted averted my gaze ever so slightly, but that was all the clues needed. The mother understood my meaning as she bit her lip softly with sorrow in her eyes. Still, she didn't stop her son from questioning on._

_"Then why are you sad?"_

_That's a good question. Why am I sad? Because I'm leaving? Because I know that within a year, if I don't find some stability, I'm going to probably commit suicide? This is a rough world we live in, cruel in every aspect. Still, this boy is referring to now. I don't was to leave him empty-handed._

_"Because he will take me away."_

_"Away? Away where?"_

_"A place far away where nobody will ever see me cry, "I whispered. I realized how dark it appeared and within seconds quickly quipped up, just for the child's comfort, "A place full of dwarves and elves and dragons! A place with evil ogres and an evil wizard!"_

_The result was worth it as the bell chimed, indicating the child's laughter. The mother smiled, grateful for my quick tale, before asking, "Is there a hero? A knight in shining armor?"_

_"Oh yes, of course, madam," I ensured, enjoying the improvised tale escaping my lips, "But none you would expect."_

_I could just see the sparkle of naïve curiosity and interest spark behind the child's eyes at my cliff hanger and it took all my will to not laugh. The child made it rather hard to do that though._

_"What does he mean mummy?" the son asked his mother as she laughed at his eager inquiries. Hushing him to wondering glances of disquisition, she asked his question, "what kind of man in this hero?"_

_I thought it over briefly before answering, "This man.. he's a.. hobbit!"_

_"A hobbit!" both exclaimed. Both of their faces were comical, their eyes widened and mouths popped open in surprise._

_"A hobbit," I repeated, "Smaller than any dwarf, with feet large and slightly hairy." I didn't want to give too much information mainly because my imagination was running dry now._

_"What an odd creature," said the mother with laughter, "and where on Earth does this creature live?"_

_I chuckled softly and smiled briefly, "For that you will wait for tomorrow, or whenever you see me in fact."_

_The son appeared to be in state of withdrawal at my response and peered at me with a pleading expression._

_"But mister-!"_

_"No 'buts' child. Be patient and you shall receive." I winked at him and he went to stand by his mother._

_With a few mutterings, the little boy calmed down as his mother pipped, "Then would you care to sing a song instead? I've heard you sing multiple times and you sound amazing if I do say so myself!"_

_Amazing? No, I'm not that decent, but I'm not going to mention that._

_With a nod, I replied, "Of course madam. What would you prefer?"_

_"Oh anything is fine," she paused, "...on second thought, "she spared me a sad look, "Do you know or can you sing an songs relating to war?"_

_"Not happy ones," I spoke quietly, looking down at my dog tags, faintly shining in the clouded light._

_"All the same, "she murmured softly._

_I didn't have to look at her to know that she was probably reminiscing on her past. Instead, I picked a random song out of my head that fit her wishes and sighed._

_This was going to be a difficult song to play. I can feel it._

_I began to strum my fingers._

_"Border line,_

_Dead inside_

_I don't mind._

_Falling to pieces_

_Count me in_

_Violent_

_Let's begin_

_Feeding the sickness._

_How do I_

_Simplify_

_Dislocate_

_The enemy's on the way_

_Show me what it's like_

_To dream in black and white_

_So I can leave this world tonight_

_Full of fear_

_Everclear_

_I'll be here_

_Fighting forever._

_Curious_

_Venomous_

_You'll find me_

_Climbing to heaven_

_Never mind._

_Turn back time_

_You will be fine_

_I will get left behind._

_Show me what it's like_

_To dream in black and white_

_So I can leave this world behind_

_Holding on too tight_

_Breathe the breath of life_

_So I can leave this world behind_

_It only hurts just once_

_They're only broken bones_

_Hide the hate inside_

_Oh…_

_So I can leave this world behind_

_Show me what it's like_

_To dream in black and white_

_So I can leave this world behind_

_Holding on too tight_

_Breath the breath of life_

_So I can leave this world behind."_

_The voice of this used to be loud, angered, and screamed resent, but not this time._

_My tone was soft as I sang this. I knew that if I were to speak louder, the sentimentality would be lost and the curious child would be frightened. I didn't want to scare them, I didn't want to see the hate in the mother's eyes. I have seen too much of it, enough for a lifetime, and the look is usually represented in one of horror and heavy distaste. A sour lemon, a bitter apple._

_The notes drifted off softly like clouds in the wind as my song came to a close. Fingering the final strings, I sighed and looked up to see a worried child and a crying mother._

_"Oh miss, I'm sorry- I didn't-" she held up her hand and I ceased ranting. It wasn't just because the hand she rose though. No, I stopped because the look she gave me wasn't one of hate. It wasn't distaste. It was a grateful smile._

_"Thank you," she murmured, kissing me on the cheek. Holding her hand out, she opened her palms to me to show her donation. I didn't want to take it. She didn't have to give me anything. She and her son's company was enough, but she was determined so I took the money. It was enough for the necessities I needed. Definitely enough._

_I counted the amount slowly before a brief smile flitted to my features._

_"No… thank yo-" When I looked up, she was gone in the crowd. It was mysterious, but I shook my head, brushing the thought aside. Today was a decent day, much to my surprise, so I should be grateful. God knows how many good days I have seen and received._

_I packed up my guitar and was about to disappear when the wind caught on a little white note. Pulling it out, I saw in neat scrawl an address. Below it was a message:_

_"If you need a place, our door is always open - Alina Brooks"_

_I smiled at the note as I packed up the guitar in its scratched case. There are not that many good people these days, not many at all. It's like they are a nearly extinct species really._

_With everything packed and the warm blood still running through my veins from the small amount of adrenaline from playing in a crowd, I was about to take a step towards the alley behind the bench when a voice stopped me cold._

_"You play well."_

_Stiffening, I rotated my body in the direction of the silk-like voice. I was met with a woman. She wasn't average. Oh no, she was as beautiful as they come. Of course I knew that she was no good. I wasn't a fool. People like her have danger flowing around them like flies on a body. Even though dark chestnut hair and piercing blue eyes adorned her stunning face, all I wanted to do was flee with my money. To leave. She was going to ruin me. I knew she was._

_In my opinion, I didn't want any more trouble than I already have living like this._

_Well, might as well be polite then excuse myself. Maybe she will get the hint. If I'm lucky that is._

_And I rarely am._

_I nodded my head, making it known that I wanted to leave by my posture, "Yes. I've played for a while now…"_

_At that I attempted to turn and mold into the crowd, but I was already stuck. The woman's slim fingers attached itself to the crook my arm as I reached for my case and it took all my willpower to not curse at this confrontation. Of course she would come up to me. Of course she would pick me out of every bloody homeless man on the streets. Just wonderful._

_I was practically a bloody magnet for the troubled and dangerous._

_Slowly turning my face to meet her gaze, I saw her smirk at my attempt. She found this humorous, of course she would. The rich always enjoyed the squirming of the poor and deficient._

_"Where do you think you're going, dear?" she purred. I felt the bile rise in my throat as I fought the urge to cringe._

_"Back to where I came from."_

_"And where would that be?" The woman asked with a sly grin. She had me caught and she knew it. I heard the faint traces of an accent in her voice. I didn't try to distinguish it though. I was kind of caught In a predicament after all._

_At that question, I remained silent. Silence is a virtue as they say, but right now its my defense. Maybe If I don't say anything she will finally get the message._

_Of course the bloody opposite happened. The minute I refused to reply still gave her the answer. The silence betrayed me like multiple others have._

_"You have nowhere to go?" a rhetorical question, "oh pity you!"_

_I hated her with a dire passion; she was full of herself, egotistical, and quite frankly a pain in the arse. Now I was stuck by her side with no where to run to and no one to cry out for. I wasn't cold, bloodless, and stiff yet my body was already fading to the outlines of a ghost._

_My hairs along my arm began to bristle as she stared at me for a moment._

_All of a sudden I saw her beam._

_"You will come to my home, non?" This time her accent was thick in her response. It was French and by the looks of it, she was trying to keep it in check._

_"Forgive me," I began with courtesy though silent distaste brewed beneath the words, "But I would rather not. You see, I have somewhere else to be."_

_The woman eyed me with a look that made me feel small, "Nonsense. You will accompany me," I was about to voice my contempt when she added almost silently, "and if you struggle or cry out, I will make it appear as if you were the perpetrator."_

_"How so?" I added, narrowing my eyes._

_Her grin could only be described as a Cheshire smile. "Oh, I don't know. What would make all the men near by run to my aid? Perhaps rape?"_

_"As if I would do such," I growled between clenched teeth._

_"But who would they believe?" She spoke nonchalantly, he nails turning into talons and jabbing through my jumper into my skin, "A rich, high-status woman, or a lowly, homeless peasant such as yourself? Stop struggling dear and accept the inevitable."_

_I was about to cry out in tyranny when my rational side spoke up to calm the voice. I didn't want to get into any more trouble than I was in._

_Part of me voiced that I was stronger and I could push her and make a run for it, but my other side reminded solemnly that it would make me appear guiltier than I was, not that I did anything in the first place._

_Instead, I remained silent as she guided me through the streets. Each step seemed heavier than the last as the dread began to make itself known. The woman next to me seemed completely oblivious to my mood. She was speaking to me with ambiance and vitality, but I wasn't hearing her. Instead I was listening to the laughter my misfortune was having on me._

_Minutes passed by with her asking pointless questions with even more pointless answers. It was ridiculous how she could manipulate me so quickly. I should have been cautious. I should not have been filled with euphoria so much that my senses, normally sharp, were dull to any danger. I had made a mistake and now that mistake was going to be rubbed in like salt to a wound._

_"We are here," she whispered in my ear and I jumped, looking at her briefly before eying the mansion in front of me. It was exactly what I pictured a woman of her stature to have._

_Two, maybe three, story building with maybe a hundred rooms would fit the description. A cage would also fit it._

_As we walked through the front door, perhaps 20 pairs of eyes landed on me. When I glanced between their stares, I only saw pity and sympathy as they saw me in her clutches. They were all homeless, all men. I wasn't her first victim and by the looks of it, I wasn't going to be her last._

_She led me past their vacant stares to the master bedroom, her bedroom. It was laced with red and black throughout curtains and comforters, sheets and pillows. It was supposed to be seductive, but it only put me on edge._

_"What is your name?" the woman spoke and I remained silent._

_She shut the door and locked it. Turning around elegantly, she eyed me with slight distaste. It was probably the first time I noticed the visible emotion on her face considering before it was all pretense smiles and seductive grins._

_"It would be of your best intentions to reply," she spoke venomously and I glared at her._

_"John Watson."_

_"An army man no doubt," she responded casually and once again I remained silent._

_Biting my lower lip briefly I asked, "and yours?"_

_"Hmm?" She questioned, coming closer._

_"Your name?" I asked again._

_"Oh. I'm known by many names, my dear. But, my original is Miss Fria Dubois." French as suspected._

_She neared me and I wanted to take a step back. I didn't like the way she licked her lips as if she was a predator and I was her soon to be helpless prey._

_It was sickening._

_She stroked her index finger along the sides of my cheek, but I made no move to follow her thoughts. Instead I turned my head away and prepared to place my hands against her if needed._

_"You're strong willed…" she purred, "But I can break you."_

_"I would love to see you try," I thought bitterly._

_She smirked and I realized that I said it aloud._

_"I will break you," she murmured again, as if assuring both myself and her that it was fully possible. I knew it wasn't. I have dealt with worse people than her and I know for a fact that I can stand her seductions. I'm not some feeble hearted man. Not in the slightest. I'm just waiting for her to come to the same conclusion at this point so I can released from her clutches._

_She didn't get the hint at all. Within seconds she was almost pressing herself to my body and I almost cringed. She was mere inches away from me when I placed my hands on her shoulders to push her away._

_A diversion. I need time to get away. Curse my inexperience with women. Ugh. What can I say?_

_An idea popped up, "What about an outfit? I'm sure you have one that could… break me." The last two words were practically choked out of me and I immediately wanted to be ashamed of such words. Nonetheless, my mind pushed them aside so my main priority of getting out was at front._

_Her sly grin widened as she heard these words. My stomach dropped when I feared she had seen through my attempts._

_I counted my blessings when she hadn't._

_"Oh? So you are into that sort of kink, mon amor?" her voice was one of interest, "Give me a moment my dear and I will have you begging."_

_With that she left to her bathroom (more like sauntered to it) and I gave a sigh of relief._

_For a moment, I looked around me, noticing faintly the beginnings of snow fall outside. Cursing under my breath for being unprepared for the cold, I took a deep breath._

_I didn't waste a second. I was already in action the second she shut the door._

_Unlocking the lock (a simple rotation lock, thank god),I yanked the door open and dashed down the steps, running through the raised brows of her many captives. They didn't stop me, if anything, they seemed hopeful of my escape._

_The cool air outside bit me immediately, but I didn't stop. I didn't stop running because I knew by this point she had probably noticed my escape and I knew that angry women are not exactly the best type of people to get caught by._

_The snow that was falling was almost blinding. I couldn't see 5 feet in front of me, but I didn't care. As long as my feet could be picked up and placed solidly on the ground, I was fine. I just had to remain active. Running. If I ceased my escapade for a minute, my limbs would freeze up and cramp. I would have to stop and I can't risk that. I don't want to get caught or found or anything in between._

_Taking a left, I swerved into one of the main streets and dashed along the sidewalks. Nobody was out at this time considering it was on the break of nightfall. I was lucky for that. Perhaps I could get back to my shelter before being seen._

_I gasped when I ran into a man. My elbow clipped his arm and he fell to the ground. Evaluating quickly where I stood in escaping, I ran back and helped the man up. His eyes gleamed with humor and curiosity, not the anger and frustration I had expected._

_"I'm sorry," I huffed. I was bouncing from foot to foot to keep the blood flowing._

_"No, no. It's alright. I'm fine. You obviously have somewhere you want to go… or somewhere you are trying to avoid,"_

_I gave a confused look when I felt a sharp pain on my hand and a tingling feeling spreading from my fingertips to my arm._

_Observing the pinpoint for a moment, I noticed the faint dot of blood leaving the wound and the syringe being placed back carefully in the man's coat pocket._

_It was evident. I had been drugged. Just bloody wonderful._

_Staring in horror at the man, I ran from him. My body was slowly becoming numb. It was slowly becoming useless. I wanted to cry out, scream, sob, but I couldn't. My throat was burning and I couldn't let even a sound escape my lips._

_I swerved right so I landed around the poverty area, expensive penthouses dwindling to some unkempt homes and less known flats._

_The effects of the drugs occurred quickly. My arms became lead and then my legs gradually gained pounds that I couldn't lift. My lungs felt as if they wanted to burst and my heart was pumping blood too fast to be counted as healthy or normal._

_Before long it became too much energy to keep moving and I fell face first into the snow. My head hit something hard, but I felt no pain. The cold took care of that. Rotating my body so I was on my back, I turned my head to see where I was._

_It was a doorstep. With the snow falling, I couldn't see much, but I could see the faint metallic numbers of "57" and a handle. I couldn't reach it. I know I wouldn't be able to. As it is, my head is already swimming on the edge of unconsciousness. Every thought was like the wind, appearing and then flying away._

_I could do nothing else. So I began to accept my possible death. I began to over-analyze it like I tend to do whenever I get hurt._

_I knew what was bound to happen. If I remained in this snow, I was going to die of hypothermia. I was going to fall asleep first. A dreamless sleep. I wouldn't think of Harry, my god-forsaken father, of my deceased mother. I wouldn't think of the wars I had been presented in nor the men I had lost. I was going to close my eyes and never open them again. I was going to pass away like another of the hopeless._

_I wouldn't be able to keep my promise to Harry on staying alive._

_Smiling bitterly, I sighed, the hot air rising. No, I have to give at least one more attempt._

_My muscles screamed at me, telling me I was useless at this point in moving._

_But then again, I was a soldier. I have to try until my limbs are all but extra pieces of me._

_I grunted. Every muscle in me was shrieking it's distaste in my movements. They shouted to give up. It would hurt less but I ignored the pleas. No. I would try once more. Raising my other hand, the one still able to move, I thumped it against the door beside me._

_Once._

_Twice._

_Three times._

_I didn't know if my sounds were heard because I drifted into unconsciousness soon after, the dark an almost welcoming presence to my pain._

"John!"

I groaned when I felt my body being shaken. Squinting my eyes open, I was blurred by sleep. It only took a few seconds to realize that I was in a London cab and not on the doorstep in the middle of an abnormal snow flurry.

It took me another moment to take in the fact that Sherlock was maybe a foot away, hands gripping my shoulders. Blinking, I realized he was probably the reason I woke up.

Sherlock was eying me with a mixture of worry and concern I never knew him to carry. His brows were furrowed and his piercing blue eyes stared into mine awkwardly.

"I'm... awake." I murmured.

"Are you?" He raised a brow.

I glared, "Yes I am. Why do you ask?"

His lips flattened into a line before responding, "I asked you a few times the same question and each time you responded differently. You mentioned different names with each awakening. I was just making sure you weren't still in your dreams at this point."

"What kind of names?" I asked slowly.

"Alina Brooks and then Fria Dubois," he answered back, watching for any change in expression.

I blinked and then placed my eyes on defense. I didn't want him to start asking of those names. They were... private if anything. Besides, he didn't have to know about them. They didn't pertain to him. My past will stay hidden until it is necessary to tell it… or until he deduces their relations. I could feel the faint tug of the desire to recede into my mind return. It wasn't as strong as when I was in the hospital, but it was still present.

Shaking my head, I pushed aside the feeling and chuckled.

That was probably the wrong thing to do because the look Sherlock gave me was one questioned my state of mind just about.

"It was just a dream. Nothing is wrong."

"...And yet you laughed when clearly nothing was stated," he countered.

"Maybe I thought something was funny in my head!" I retaliated.

A few moments of awkward silence drifted in as we awaited for one of us to break.

As it turned out, it was me.

"Look, it's nothing. I'm just tired is all," I sighed.

Sherlock's brows rose slightly, "Are you sure you are alright?"

"Yes," I responded," Perfectly fine. All of this sudden action and adrenaline may be making me more prone to exhaustion then normally. I'm still healing after all." I motioned to my bandages on my arms from the scratches and the light cast on my wrist.

His mouth opened once more, but I quickly looked out all the windows and noticed we weren't moving, "Are we... here?"

"If you mean the latest crime scene, then yes."

The diversion was a success. I breathed out quietly.

I was about to respond with more questions of the case when he opened the cab door and jumped out. I barely had registered the movement when my door was pulled open.

Smiling wryly, I ignored the look of the cabbie and paid him, getting out. I could immediately feel my ankle protest and limped slightly on it. Great.

Sherlock, completely in crime scene mode, looked curious and almost ran off ahead of me. He was just on the other side of the yellow tape when he looked behind him, rolled his eyes, and lifted the tape for me to follow.

It's... funny really. Even though I have only seen one other murder besides this current one, I am already used to the radioactive yellow tape and its belated warnings of "caution". It was just another hindrance to get the job done. I... couldn't save the victim now, not when their heart has ceased to beat. The only activity I can do is put my emotional outbursts to the side to find this murderer and bring him or her to justice.

Within minutes we were already in front of the door where the recently dated corpse was strewn out. The door was closed, but the smell drifted under the door and around the area as if it was one of those incense sticks people use. It was awful and unmistakably that of a dead body. My nose wrinkled, but Sherlock opened the door like it was nothing.

Right when the door opened, Lestrade was already on the other side, staring us down. He was holding up two suits, bleached white and obviously used to cease much, if any, contamination on the scene. Sherlock appeared as if he wanted to burn holes in the material, but in no time at all pulled the suit over his own. I took my time of course, making sure everything was well-protected, before following after the insistent detective.

It took me three seconds before I stopped.

The corpse... the woman... Even as I experienced it, I couldn't believe my eyes. I just couldn't. It was... utterly horrifying but intriguing in a slightly worrying manner.

The body, in its own right, could be counted as a maliciously crude type of modern art or a complete, and discrete sense of nauseating, murder to purposefully hide the body and the identity who drove it to do its everyday movements.

My opinion? I suppose you could say I wasn't exactly in the right state of mind when I viewed that corpse. Not in sanity and and insanity types of categories, but in subconscious memories submerged and conscious similarities I wanted to run from.

It was almost deja vu.

The melting corpse. The smell of burning flesh and the familiar dead look I have seen in my past. All of these familiar signs grabbed me by my ankles and pulled me back into the dark void I spent so long trying to run away from.

The darkness where my certain repressed memories now lie for me to avoid.

A memory I had decided to keep away from anybody. A fact I was ordered to keep to myself and to never share under any variable circumstances.

By the one person I thought I could trust to the fullest of my abilities.

It was only a mission. It was supposed to be a regular rescue mission to aid in some men who clearly didn't know what to do. I had a few trainees with me so I could evaluate their efficiency. It was supposed to be easy and quick. Rescue and bring back. It wasn't even in no man's land. It was supposed to be so simple.

But things aren't always as they should appear.

I could feel the same darkness that claimed me in the hospital come back again. The doctor warned me of this. She told me that it would spike several times and I needed to control it. Post traumatic stress disorder is all it is, but I still couldn't shake the feeling I got when I was there. When one of my own higher ups betrayed me.

"John?"

He was a dramatic sort. He wasn't afraid to let his opinion be known. It was that tweak of his that made him nearly impossible to be around, but my squad and I trusted him despite it. If a voice was heard that sounded very theatrical and exaggerated, it was always dubbed as his tone and matched to his face.

"John."

That voice was almost like the one of the men who captured me. It shared a striking resemblance. So close...

Before I knew it, I could feel my heart react by racing. Though that was as far as it got.

"John!"

I blinked and was met with the concerned gazes of Lestrade and Sherlock. By the tone, it was Sherlock who called me.

His expression was almost unreadable, but I could see the telltale signs of worry, confusion, concern, and annoyance. His hands were just above the supposed body, almost twitching with the curiosity.

Their eyes didn't fall and I realized they were probably waiting for me to reply, to brush it aside.

Right.

"Sorry," I smiled and shook my head, "My brain just shut down temporarily. I'm alright now." I ignored the glares from Lestrade to counteract my assertions and snapped the gloves on my fingers. The familiar latex feeling was definitely one of the few aspects I never missed.

Glancing at Lestrade, I offered another smile, "Seriously mate, I'm alright. I mean, look at this body. Do you thin I see this on a daily basis? I was bound to blank out for a moment, you know?"

The tension on the DI's shoulders lightened a bit and I saw him give a small grin back, "Oi, but you better get used to it if you stick with this genius here."

I chuckled and walked over to the body, preparing my mind for small mental notes.

Retaining my post on the opposite side of the victim, directly opposing Sherlock, I briefly observed him.

His brow was furrowed, but I knew it wasn't from the case. He never changes his expression when at a crime scene from what I observed and heard from Lestrade. Something was on his mind, but I knew better than to prod. Common courtesy and all those bits.

Instead I sighed and started to observe the body, taking mental notes of the state of various parts of the organs and bones. The deterioration varied between the superior and inferior parts of the body. The upper half appeared more so compact and sturdy, save for the occasional brittle bone and almost-liquified skin. Some of the body was splashed, meticulously dabbed, with whatever stained the skin while others was a careless dumping of the same acid. Odd.

Leaning in slightly without making contact with the body, I wafted around the partially opened mouth as well as the exposed organs. I could feel my nose almost twist when the familiar scent of vomit lifted with decay.

Nodding to myself, I took note of this as well. Asphyxiation.

When I looked up from the body, I met Sherlock's gaze once more only this time whatever bothered him was long gone now. His face was completely composed. It was hard to believe he held even a hair of doubt like before. Perhaps I imagined it? Yes, that would make more sense, considering I wasn't exactly there yet.

"Are you done diagnosing the body?"

I looked up to the detective and gave my affirmative, "Yes. Cause of death is clearly asphyxiation. Judging from the posture and her rigid movements, she must have been paralyzed until the asphyxiation killed her. The killer then probably took ahold of her body and organized it to look like," I motioned to the rest of the body, "This."

The smile on Sherlock's face was small, but it made me somewhat proud of myself. Had I done good in his standards? I'd think I had.

"Good, but you missed some of the more important details."

Controlling my urge to groan, I just stared at him with a raised brow. I was waiting for him to reply with his details of observation, but instead he merely glanced at me.

"Do you have a pad and pen?"

I blinked and was about to shake my head when Lestrade pushed one into my palms, "Ah, thanks?"

The only warning I got before he began his deductions was the simple. "Write whatever I say."

The list was lengthy to be vague. Very vague.

He spouted everything from the intentions of the killer to the habits of her home. He even stated her possibly malignant and terminal disease, which was the motive for this murder. The list in itself must have taken a good 10 pages of my scrawl just to put the basics of what he said, not counting the tid bits I might have had to dumb down. It was amazing and a little scary.

Imagine if he were to become a murderer? I suppose then London would be royally screwed as they say.

I heard a huff and looked up from the pad. Sherlock was staring at me as if asking "did I get everything?"

Smiling, I nodded. I flipped the notebook closed, sliding the pen into the little grooves at the top.

I couldn't help it, "That was amazing."

Sherlock eyed me once more before looking away. He couldn't look away fast enough. I swear I saw a little smirk on those lips. I don't know if it was pleasure or mockery of the praise, but it was there.

"You don't have to say it every time."

I could feel my face redden and looked down at my notepad, stammering, "I-I'm sorry."

"No… it's fine."

I looked up and he was watching me with a mixture of amusement and interest.

I didn't know what to do to that so I just smiled and glanced at Lestrade only to wish I hadn't. His brows were quirked in that "knowing" way of his and I wanted to pull him aside to set this straight but decided against it. I'm the mature one... I have to keep calm.

So help me god. These two were going to eventually break my mature composure. They will and I'm almost one hundred percent sure that they know this too. Well, at least Sherlock does.

"Care to relay the finer points of my observations, John?" I flipped open the pad once more and began to list off the major notes I marked.

"Death was by asphyxiation, but her body was conformed with the use of a base known as Sodium Hydroxide. According to you, you said the person-"

"She."

I glanced up, "She," I corrected before continuing, "was able to use the base to her advantage by hydrolysis and careful placement. You said the murderer was an artist, meticulous. You also said this was her first murder, but will more than likely not be her last. She has brown hair, shoulder length, and wears glasses because of the fact she got close enough and was still slightly crooked in her methods. Nearsighted."

"Good. What else?"

This time it was Lestrade who delivered the praise, but I hardly noticed, flipping the page to read off the rest.

"You said she was influenced by Moriarty. From what I wrote, you mentioned it was because of the note, but when I looked at the note, I saw no indications of what you saw."

The infamous eye roll, "That's because you see-"

"-But I don't observe. Yeah, yeah we have heard it already." I added my own eye roll to the remark and Sherlock blinked for a moment, miffed as it seems, before a low chuckle escaped his lips.

"You saw the note did you not, John? Look at its placement. It's carefully arranged in front of the candle so that you have to see it. Now, get on your knees and squint at the note."

I did so and not a moment later I recognized faint indentations where some liquid made contact with the paper. It wasn't just dabs of water. No, it was...

" Are those words?" I remarked incredulously.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but as my eyes adjusted, I noticed the faint pattern of a poem. Writing it down in my notebook, I groaned as my aching bones protested and got back on my feet.

"Well?"

I met Lestrade's gaze and grinned for a moment before becoming serious again, "He's right... as always. There was a note, but it's a poem."

"A poem?"

"Yeah. Well, actually more like a riddle. Here, let me read it. It might be easier."

Taking a deep breath I murmured the stanzas efficiently and clearly:

"This thing all things devours;

Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;

Gnaws iron, bites steel;

Grinds hard stones to meal;

Slays king, ruins town,

And beats mountain down.

-J.M."

The silence after I finished was one of contemplation.

"So... clearly the J.M signature is for Jim Moriarty," Lestrade spoke slowly, "But that's all we have to prove it was his words that influenced this."

I immediately looked at Sherlock and saw him smirking, "That's not all. If you have noticed, the note I'd written in lemon juice, almost exactly like Alice's murder. He's linking his murders together for us to follow."

"But that still isn't enough," Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock looked slightly annoyed at the response and added, "Also there was the familiar symbol that was at John's ambush from him. It's clearly his influence."

Lestrade seemed slightly satisfied with that answer and motioned us out. Walking alongside my left side, Sherlock on my right, he muttered, "So we are not only looking for a possibly homicidal... artist, but also a supposed criminal mastermind?"

That's what it seemed like but neither Sherlock nor I confirmed it.

A sigh, "I suppose it's a good thing I didn't want to return home," stopping us at the yellow tape, he added, "I'll contact you if I find anything of interest. Though I have a feeling it might just be another murder..."

I spared a sympathetic glance at the man before following Sherlock's heels.

After a few limps on my part to match his long strides, I decided to ask.

"Now what?"

"Now," he sighed with resentment, "we wait. I suspect not for long. This... Moriarty doesn't seem to like waiting for the crowd to die down as they say. He enjoys the attention so he will probably influence another within the week."

I didn't ask how he knew because i knew he would spare me one of those looks that make me feel like I only went to preschool and hadn't actually gone to medical school and the military. Instead, I remained silent in idle awe at his assertions that would no doubt be right.

Despite the fact that if they were, another life would be taken.

As he hailed a cab, I glanced around briefly.

It was nightfall. The lamps along the sidewalk were a lit and bright compared to the blackness around them. If the noisy cops weren't around, it would be just about peaceful… well, as peaceful as one could get knowing that a murder occurred.

Idly following the streetlamps until I couldn't see the next, I noticed something. It was probably a good few yards, but it was there.

At the movement of a shadow in the distance I froze and looked closer.

My blood ran cold.

I knew that walk, those heels, that dress, and the familiar walk and face. I knew those red lips that spoke of falsehood and tyranny. It washer.

"John."

"Yeah," I spoke airily, "Yeah, coming."

As I climbed in the cab, I swear I saw the woman smile at me like a lioness to her prey. I didn't think she was still here.

The cab silently pulled past her and I almost cringed when Miss Fria Dubois smiled innocently and blew a kiss in my direction.

* * *

><p><em>Did you notice my Hobbit reference? To be honest, I suppose it could be LotR as well, but still. If you must know, I'm an avid fan of the series. I love it to pieces and am actually working on a cosplay group with my friends for the 3rd part of the Hobbit in December! It's going to be fun.<em>

_The song is Unknown Soldier by Breaking Benjamin. It's one of my all time favorite songs and I vowed to myself I would put it in here. ^^_

_Ugh... without realizing it I made a slight hint of my father's thought process in here. Long story short, my mother cheated on my father with her highschool sweetheart that left her back then. She cheated on him openly and my father kicked her out. Nonetheless, he's still a bitter old man about it to be honest and even though it has been 5 years, I was hoping he would be over it. You know the movieland part? That would be his. Every movie we see that involves romance and love, he criticizes it to the core. He would either say "she doesn't love him", "she's cheating on him", or "that would never happen. Families are never that perfect." And while it could be true, I always have to scold him for it... *sigh*_

_What did you think of Miss Fria Dubois? She's going to be my small side antagonists. God I wanted to kill her but she has to last for a bit for the story..._

_Fun fact on the murder: You know how I described it? I might do this for the artists murders since they will honestly be the most fun to write. They are in fact heavily based off one of my coffee art pieces. Of course, I had to search for the sodium hydroxide for an hour, but god... it was the most fun to plan that. The riddle is from the Hobbit as well I believe. I love it to pieces. *sigh* I love this murder and actually want to commit it to see if it would happen that way... of course I wouldn't though! I mean... ..._

_If you haven't noticed, John will be thoroughly tormented by his mind. It's going to happen. The trauma he sustained was meant to traumatize him and even though he is a soldier, strong willed and loyal, he can break. He isn't a machine. The torture Sebastian placed on him was meant to break him. Trust me on this. It gets a lot worse. If you read the list of what I plan to do to him... you would wonder how he hasn't been broken already. It's truly horrible..._

_Well that's it! I hope you enjoyed the chapter and I will try to upload another as soon as I can actually plan some writing hours..._

_Bye ^^_


	11. Chapter 11

_Hey guys, sorry for the delayed chapter and all. I have been working on a lot of things as of late and it seems everybody wants a piece of my time haha~ Anyhow, this chapter is probably my worst chapter I have written, along with multiple others, so I apologize for the lack of... well anything interesting. _

_This chapter is mostly a little filler until the next murder. You get to see a little bit into John's misery along with Sherlock being a total, but considerate, twat. Sorry, you don't get to see what happened in John's past ;) That's not until a little further! Not much, maybe a few chapters, but definitely a little further! ^^ _

_Oh! I must say, I probably would not have gotten this chapter out at all if my John hadn't helped me along with coleys17. I had some serious writer's block, but because inspiration helped, I actually got it done AND the skeleton for chapter 12 so you won't have to wait, like a month, for the next chapter at all! Cool stuff, right?_

_So, with that said, enjoy this chapter and I am so sorry it's horrible and all that. I promise to get better. :)_

_Disclaimer: Do not own Sherlock, but I hope you all know that by now?_

* * *

><p>Chapter 11<p>

John POV

When we got back to the flat, I somehow managed to make my way through the mess to my supposed bedroom, kicking a few papers here or a stray glass there. Sherlock didn't question my motives, probably coming to the conclusion that I was tired, which I was. There was no doubt about that objective. Fatigue was beginning to wrack my bones with every motion, any previous held energy waning down their structures like oil. It was annoying really. Terribly so. I was practically a zombie walking at this point, my adrenaline running low.

Not to mention my entire body wanted to probably murder me from the excess, quick movements I made all day. It was like they were protesting, stating that they held rights to heal and mend, in which they did. I was hindering any recovery the doctor made me promise to do by attending the scene and all this, but I suppose it was my stubbornness that did that. I didn't want to sit on my arse, wondering what was happening, mainly since I knew Sherlock probably wouldn't want to repeat what he saw.

After all, he was the _only consulting detective in the world _so I would have to somehow read his mind and all, which of course I couldn't.

The scratches on my stomach and arms began to make themselves known by the rough contact with my jumper and I winced slightly.

Though I suppose thanks to the excursion I will need a longer time frame of relaxing, not that I am complaining if I have something to do.

Well, something that isn't worrying what Sherlock may be doing.

Closing the door, I sighed heavily as my back landed on the mattress. The bed was comfortable at least. More so than the streets that's for sure. I could actually feel my back instead of the numbness of a nerve striking some jagged rock or the corner of a box.

I didn't move from my position, my legs remaining in their hanged position off the edge. Using the feet, I toed the shoes off, scooting them go the edge if my bed for easy access later if needed. Afterwards, I just laid there, staring at the ceiling and wondering why it still felt so weird seeing the rough plaster instead of something more interesting.

It took me a minute, but as soon as that thought left me, I could feel myself chuckle lightly. Now I know why.

My eyes were still used to seeing stars and constellations; the moon and the wisps. The color of dawn and the deprivation of it in the falling of night. It's funny really. I suppose one can never be fully content with what they have... even when It was all taken from them. Although the same stars and the same moon is right outside my window, It wasn't the same. I wanted to be laying outside and seeing it when I laid back, not craning my neck and squinting my vision just to see a hundredth of it.

As the thoughts came and went, I felt my mind wander to Sherlock. What would he think of my views? Probably seeing them as rubbish since he's a twat really, but it still would be interesting. Maybe tomorrow. Tonight I'm too exhausted to really do anything.

I wasn't sleepy. There is a difference between being somnolent and just being mentally worn down. My mind didn't want to create dreams, my body just pleaded to rest considering the activity I did today. It made every movement, now that the numbing adrenaline was gone, almost excruciating. I didn't want to move a bone or muscle, but I also didn't wish to slip into unconsciousness. All I wished for this moment was to lay down. That was it.

Of course the smallest of motions I made to get comfortable only back lashed.

My bones protested immediately, my wrist beginning to ache from being forced to play this morning, not to mention my quick note taking at the scene during one of Sherlock's moments. My ankle was also beginning to burn with a dull, uncomfortable pain. I didn't like it, but I wasn't going to use the pain pills prescribed to me.

Sorry, but I wasn't warranted any relief from this. Besides, it's not like I have them in the first place.

Actually, I disposed of those as soon as I was able to. I didn't deserved to be released from the pain I harbored considering the amount I caused on so many others. This was only a tiny percentage, a small portion of what I truly had coming. Then again, if I were to have the full blow of the karma I was certain to obtain, I probably wouldn't be moving anymore.

The thought briefly made me freeze up and my bones sent their angered complaints through the malady coursing through my nerves.

A shuddering breath wracked through my body as the last drop of adrenaline left me, leaving me a rag doll.

The first wave was the full aches and throbbed pulses of blood that coursed through my ankle and wrist. It wasn't unbearable. Just uncomfortable. I kept wanting to adjust just to somehow lessen the pain if possible. But then morality would kick in and I would stop.

Next came the protesting of my scratches ranging from my arms to my stomach and legs. It only increased the level at which I was uncomfortable. Every movement pulled at the scarred tissue and I had to flinch. For an instant my mind wandered to the pain medication, but I quickly slashed it aside.

I didn't deserve them. I didn't need them. I was used to pain and this is nothing compared to what I have felt and should be feeling. My debt has not yet been paid, if you will.

To anybody else, this little voice would be annoying and they would do everything in their power to get rid of it. I, on the other hand, lived with it with full acceptance. It kept my mind in order and all it said to do that was the little phrase, "You deserve so much worse, monster."

It was a mantra really, this disappointment that berated my being. In all actualization, it wasn't a real voice like you would hear in a mentally unstable individual. No, this one was mainly insecurities and guilt that decided to make itself known in the only way possible. Criticism. I shouldn't be caring about all the pain I was being dealt since it wasn't the full amount yet. Even now I was scolding myself with every noise of discomfort I managed to accidentally slip through.

These walls weren't very thick and the last thing I needed was for Sherlock to inquire if I was alright. To him, I was perfectly stable and consistently loyal, or so I hoped. I didn't want those tables to turn so he viewed me as broken and guilt-ridden. Then he'll worry and be concerned over everything he said and did (or so I thought. This was all minor generalizations of what others in his shoes would do to be honest).

That's another thing, worry. I don't want them to worry of me: Sherlock, Lestrade, even dear Mrs. Hudson. I don't want them to see me like this because right now, this was as close to starting over as I was able to get. I'll be damned if I let loose stray emotions to break that thin fantasy. That would only benefit in nothing but more explanations. More explanations means that I will have to go back to that memory.

Blood and dismembered bodies fills my vision briefly before dissolving back to the dull coloured room. I flinched from the sudden assault, but quickly resorted to chastising the movement at all.

It's odd because I never looked down on little things like that: flinching, jumping, small shivers. I let it slide, or that's what I used to anyways.

A soft, humorless chuckle leaves my throat as I mock my own fragility. I was never this bad. I actually used to hold some respect for my body and mind, slim but there. It was a nice feeling not hating it to the core, but it didn't last when he, Sebastian, got to it before I could reinforce the walls. Now those bits of shattered respect are so malformed that I could never piece it together. A puzzle desolate of all but one piece.

No thanks to that event I have changed and not for the better. My self awareness has heightened to the point of paranoia and my self-criticism has gone up drastically because of that arse's words... that I believed. If I was stronger, this would be different. Very different. Right now I would love to scream "sod this" to the world and throw the two fingers, but that wouldn't help anything except making it more positive that I need a bloody psychiatrist.

Which I don't.

Pain shot through my wrist as I flipped it in an angry gesture. Ouch.

Scooting ever so slightly, I managed to get my feet more or less on the bed. This went, without saying, on with the constant pain. It was like low tide and high tide on the beaches. Some times it was bearable and others it was like I couldn't even breath.

I still didn't utter a sound.

After a moment, I decided to stop moving altogether and found it easy to relax. I wasn't straining any muscles nor was I doing anything to stress the mending bones.

Of course, when the pain withered away, my faults decided to play. Mainly the fact that my facade, carefully placed, is being seen through. I have to start strengthening it. This is what I get for being on the streets for so long that people don't give a damn about your emotions. Nonetheless, it was going to ruin me if it wasn't adjusted significantly. For God's sake, I was a bloody soldier, or an army doctor at least! I should be able to sustain a perfect emotionless mask if any of my traits were to be criticized with the utmost scrutiny.

But somehow, Sherlock and Lestrade see through them, each layer carefully organized. Mainly Sherlock. Always bloody Sherlock. He was a genius and a prat and I could just feel the small amount of panic rise in my head when I silently realized he was going to figure out that I was lying of my state, that is, if he hasn't already. I live with him now. If he figured it out, I couldn't do anything but listen to his (always correct) deductions on my psyche. I wouldn't be able to get a word in and I just knew that Sherlock was not going to let me go without a confirmation. It was his ego. He wanted to know when he was right, even if it was obvious.

I sighed with defeat. Well, if he does confront me with it, I will have to bite back until he believes his assertions are wrong. Highly improbable with his eyes seeing every detail no matter how small. It's practically futile, but I'm going to have to try. With Lestrade, I just have to play my cards really carefully. Sherlock... I just had to act really... really well.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I think of how the hell I was going to do that. After all, he was Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world. He could renounce your entire life story with a glance at your attire in less than 5 minutes. He solved mysteries like it was child's play. How was I to compete with that?

I'm only a flatmate after all.

The smile that grew on my face was wry and weary. Funny. It was fitting that the only man willing to take me in was to be the only one to see through my facade. Oh my luck never ceases to amaze me.

What next? Is my next friend going to be a psychiatrist? Or worse, someone related to those I lost long ago but they don't know me? I wouldn't be surprised if a bloody psychopath decided to help me through my self-hating state. Maybe a cannibal or some bloke like that would end up evaluating me but only successful in making me more unstable than I already was? Like I said, my "luck" never ceases to amaze me.

No matter. I wouldn't tell anyone anyhow. Not Sherlock, Lestrade or some nitpicky psychiatrist. I would rather keep it to myself.

My mind decided to differ on the matter as always.

A part of me wished to tell him, Sherlock I mean, to get it off my chest and out there. I wanted to be free of feeling the world on my shoulders and I wished to finally pull the mask away in my long play. I didn't want to hide anything. I wouldn't say that I wanted to stop "pretending" because I wasn't. I wasn't faking anything. I was just avoiding any topic relating to the reason I was lying. That isn't faking, it's denial.

But, the other part relented the act. I was safe from being hurt if I acted. Nobody would worry. As if I deserved it anyways. Not with my past and certainly not with my present. I wasn't worthy of any sympathy or pity. Better to keep my misery cards close to my chest then show them to those closest to me.

Besides, I was branded with the pangs of dolor and not to any other sights of euphoria.

My qualities of the brand didn't qualify acceptance. Not at all. What I was entitled to was pain and loss. Accepting would make me feel as if I was heartless to the men I killed. I wasn't. I'll gladly take on any malignant force to feel as if I actually held any honor to their deceased graves and so it will be. That Is what fate had in store for me. Pain and death, loss and malady. When I was a soldier, I was loyal and honorable, but now I was neither of those. My past hinders me from such praise. If the people who aid me now knew what I did then, they would see a monster.

A monster that didn't save a single man in his massacre.

They would look at me, despise me. Maybe ignore me and avoid me. Perhaps something more aggressive. Anything was open for possibility at this point.

Without a doubt, they would all feel the one emotion I got when I returned: hate.

And I would deserve every drop of that animosity.

I moved my good arm to rest over my eyes, blocking the light from my eyelids. It was nice but after a moment of the darkness, I had to move it away. It didn't scare me this darkness, but it definitely was anonymous in intentions and that right there was frightening. Not knowing what's close to me because I'm blind without a light.

The breath that left me was one of uncertainty and dysphoria.

I didn't know how long I laid on that bed. Maybe half an hour or longer. It didn't matter at all. I was sure Sherlock might be asleep by this point. Any human would be. I probably should go to sleep soon as well.

But I wasn't tired. Worn and weary, yes. My body was trying to send every message of distress to my brain and it was overpowering. I was overworked and sore, but not yet sleepy. I suppose had I taken those sedatives for the pain, I would be out like a rock.

Those are gone though, tossed down the drain. I was going to be bored out of my mind until something wears my anxiety down to dust.

Perhaps the room held something of interest? I would even settle for a nice, leisurely book right now if anything. Something to catch my interest and keep me on my toes so-to-speak. It would be comforting I suppose.

Though, to be honest, what I really wished was for a instrument I have long grown with. Especially the one I lost in a bloody cab. Even though my wrist burned with every pain it could muster, my fingers still ached for strings to pluck along. They ached for a song just as my voice ached to give the lyrics. Sadly, I cannot give these two features what they want. My instrument is gone and I have a feeling it's going to be a long while before I get it back without buying another.

I opened my eyes and took in the normal bedroom furniture immediately: a lamp, desk, chair, small bookcase, and an end table and bed. The usual items to make the room looked as if somebody actually lived in it. At least it wasn't completely bare. Sherlock... no, probably Mrs. Hudson, seemed to have tried very hard to make me comfortable. I smiled at the thought briefly before letting it fall.

Glancing around my barren room with lacking interest, I noticed a familiar case in the corner. The ache only increased when it noticed the shape of the case among others. Wait... no this one was different. It was a different case, but definitely one of those.

My body groaned and glared at me as I rose to my feet and hobbled to the instrument. Sitting on the desk chair, I reached out to grasp the case and pull it to my side.

With no hesitation, I placed it on my lap and was unzipping it when a small note caught my eye. Stopping about halfway, I gingerly picked up the piece of paper.

It was a little white note, perhaps eighth the size of normal printer paper. The writing was messy, but legible.

_"I suppose I am at fault, somehow, for the loss of your guitar though you should have kept an eye on it if it was special to you... Nonetheless, I hope this will make up for its lacking?_  
><em>-S.H."<em>

I smiled at the note, the grin feeling genuine for once. That is a little unexpected. Sherlock actually went out of his way to buy me a guitar? For some reason, I felt like I should actually feel honored. Perhaps because he doesn't seem the type to do this sort of thing?

Shrugging it off, I decided to thank him later, no matter how shabby the guitar may be. I would be eternally grateful with anything with this shape and strings to pluck. I didn't care of the style or brand name. Not at all. For all I could care, it could probably be a worn down one from the shops but...

My thoughts died as I viewed the instrument before me.

To some, the guitar I held in my hands would be counted as good but cheap and not that amazing, but compared to my old guitar, the one I grew up with, this was beautiful. I suppose that makes me appear as if I have low standards, right?

I chuckled to myself. It was leaning towards surprise than humor. He got me this kind of guitar? He could have gone anywhere to get a cheaper one, but this is a beauty. I owe him. More than he probably knows since he is more than likely thinking this was a minor fling of money for the good-of-heart or some load of bollucks as that.

Running my fingers along the silk like finish of the Epiphone EJ200, I couldn't help but marvel at it. The shadows along the rims and edges. The brilliant colors in the center that resembled the sun. I couldn't even think where to begin. It was a beauty and well-tuned from whomever he got it from. Not even a scratch adorned its smooth surface.

I was about to take it out to strum it, but another note caught my eye. Same length, same scrawl. Sherlock.

_"I hadn't the slightest Idea on which you would have preferred, but this was the closest I could come to for the built of your old guita_r. _Treat with care. Don't thank me -S.H."_

_Too late_ I thought to myself, amused with the lack of credit he actually wanted to take.

Really, Sherlock. Don't thank you? I'm sorry mate, but that's not the type of man I am. I'm going to have to repay you at some point. It's a guarantee. Still, I couldn't help but smile at the note. Doesn't care my arse. He says he doesn't care and then he does this. Bloody idiot.

... not that I am complaining of course, though I really don't deserve this. Not at all. I was eventually going to buy myself another with my own money so I didn't have to rely on others. He didn't have to buy me one instead. It wasn't his fault I lost my guitar. That was purely and solely my own stupidity and vacancy. Some twisted sense of karma I'm sure. Wouldn't be surprised.

But I doubt he will take it back. He didn't even seem the sort to give gifts in the first place so returning such rare affairs is probably near to impossible. I might as well suck it up. It's what mature individual would do.

That's another thing. If I try to return it and argue with him over my decency, I would appear like a child and he will give me that stupid look that mocks everything I learned as if I learned it wrong.

As if I was going to let that happen. It already occurs enough. I don't need to add to it needlessly.

With a small sigh, I adjust the instrument to rest into my form. It fit snuggly and my fingers didn't have to strain or bend in uncomfortable positions to reach a note. It was perfect.

My fingers slid across the strings, immediately approving the texture and quality of the instrument. It gave it character, something that only a musician or minor street performer could understand. That's because we understand our instruments regardless of condition and duration. It was a knack to be blunt.

And right now, it seemed my fingers knew exactly what the guitar wanted.

"Perhaps I should play something," I murmured, setting the guitar up to a official position instead of the lazy stance it was at. Organizing my fingers at random intervals to test the strings, I smiled at the familiarity of the stress to place on each note. It was exactly like my old guitar.

After that, the rhythm just began to appear like floating music sheets. Without hesitation my fingers flew and notes became music and the music became a song.

It was lacking something. A specific something.

I mentally snapped my fingers. Lyrics. It needs lyrics.

I could feel the beat in my body and was probably smiling. I don't know. My eyes were closed so nothing could bother me. I just thought of my Muse. I wanted to create a song so I thought of my Muse to aid me.

Except... my original Muse had no effect. It was empty and barren. Panicking only slightly, I thought of another person. The one I thought of merely minutes ago.

Words began to spill from my mouth after a moment. They continued to flow with the guitar and all I thought was that this was almost a nauseating sense of deja vu. A beautiful, interesting repetition, but quite... negative. It was the only word on my mind for the moment as always.

The thought on its own should have stopped my strumming. It should have stolen my Muse. That's what normally happens when I'm pessimistic while playing.

But the words kept coming, phrases and sentences. I didn't even think.

Pretty soon, I had a song.

_"Sing me to sleep_  
><em>Sing me to sleep<em>  
><em>I'm tired and I<em>  
><em>Want to go to bed<em>  
><em>Sing me to sleep<em>  
><em>Sing me to sleep<em>

_And then leave me alone_  
><em>Don't try to wake me in the morning<em>  
><em>'Cause I will be gone<em>  
><em>Don't feel bad for me<em>  
><em>I want you to know<em>  
><em>Deep in the cell of my heart<em>  
><em>I will feel so glad to go<em>

_Sing me to sleep_  
><em>Sing me to sleep<em>  
><em>I don't want to wake up<em>  
><em>On my own anymore<em>  
><em>Sing to me (Sing to me)<em>  
><em>Sing to me<em>  
><em>I don't want to wake up<em>  
><em>On my own anymore<em>

_Don't feel bad for me_  
><em>I want you to know<em>  
><em>Deep in the cell of my heart<em>  
><em>I really want to go<em>

_Sing me to sleep_  
><em>Sing me to sleep<em>

_There is another world_  
><em>There is a better world<em>  
><em>Well, there must be<em>  
><em>there must be<em>

_There is another world_  
><em>There is a better world."<em>

The tune, albeit melancholy and depressing on all odds, was almost like an escape for me. Like every other song I created, it was moved and molded by my unrelenting emotions. Even though I was is a dysphoric state, I was smiling, a real smile. Contradictory but not if you actually understood its full meaning.

For once, I was happy and content, but I suppose I shouldn't have been too surprised. My reaction was consistently elated when a note or so was near relating to the sounds of music. Probably because music is the only part of my past not rejecting me. Probably because despite my faults, it adjusts to fit my needs. Whatever the case may be, it was my life partner. Wherever I go it follows.

I chuckled softly, the buzz wearing down to mere trinkets of occasional grins. I was always like this with instruments, specifically the guitar. Virtuoso to only its strings. It was amazing and if I could, I would remain-

BANG!

...Hence the word if I could.

In an instant, I dropped the guitar and was on the floor. My vision grew contorted between memory and reality. One second I would be in my room and the next I would be in Afghanistan watching a bullet head straight towards barrels of gunpowder. I kept telling myself I was being an idiot. I wasn't there anymore. I was safe... or I hoped. But the guilt absorbed side kept reliving the explosion and the shrieks of my men. The yells and cries from the lieutenant closest to me. The tripping of feet as I ran towards them in the aftermath to see any survivors and finding none.

But... Of course it was only a memory. After a minute, I grasped onto reality and pulled myself together. I was back in my bland room.

Sighing, I lean back on the chair and catch myself as it tips over, dropping my guitar more resolutely on the ground. With a resounding thump that made me wince heavily, I hear it land on the tough floorboards below.

So much for taking good care of it I muse solemnly before standing. My late anger began to flare as I realized that a gun had been shot in this flat. Not outside or on top.

Who would be shooting a bloody gun at this late at night? Really? Of all the decency this flat was supposed to hold. I grumbled as I came to the conclusion that only one person could and would have done it and he was in the next room.

Cursing every name that could come to mind, I walk towards the room where the detective was supposedly resting.

Bunch of lies those are.

Even though my room was farthest from the living area, I could still see the detective clear as day from where he sat.

What the...

My thick layered annoyance quickly changed to incredulity as I took in the scene in front of me.

Why did, out of all people who could have helped me, it had to be the man that was possibly an insomniac and semi-unstable individual? Granted it was probably my fault. I did choose to go with him. Nevertheless, a fair warning would have been lovely. Or maybe a personality tweak? A person who was good-natured and calm could have helped me, but I had to be assisted by this detective. I'm not complaining at all! I'm forever grateful... but sometimes...

Sometimes, like now, I wonder.

When I opened the door, I expected a lot of things. Maybe Sherlock got too close and a murderer or assassin was coming to "deal with him". Maybe a psychopath had decided that a nice stroll through the building with a half-cocked pistol would actually be fun. Maybe, and this was a tad far-fetched, a shooting or something was happening outside or, one better, an explosion had occurred and blown the windows and part of the flat to bits. I don't know. I was open to most options within a relative chance of possibility.

I don't see any of that when I open the door. As I quietly walked towards the kitchen and lean on the table, I think of another scenario where maybe Sherlock accidentally set it off. Highly improbable. That's what I expected though. Definitely not what I received.

Instead, I find Sherlock lounging in the arm chair I'm going to suppose he claimed, pointing a pistol, _MY_ pistol, at a paint-on, neon-yellow happy face on the wall. Ammunition didn't seem to stop him at all either. When the bullets ran out, he would reload with _MY_ bullets and continue. By the amount of bullet holes in the wall, he had already shot plenty of rounds, considering the first official set off was probably a minute ago.

Color me faintly impressed.

Wait, no, focus. Scold him. You are supposed to scold him. This is not okay. Not even normal.

I silently got annoyed with myself over the brief expression of interest. I need to bloody concentrate. Not awe at his inhumane abilities.

What aggravated me more so was the fact that with every single round, he would drone on monotonously, "Bored." That infamous word of his.

I could feel my hands fall to my side silently, the knuckles bleaching slowly.

He better explain this without using that word-

"Bored."

My eyebrows twitched.

If i had a remote to mute a specific word on him, it would be for that word. Sheesh, I'm pretty sure that since he has said it enough it's practically a trigger word.

"What," I paused as yet another bullet found itself lodged firmly into the walls, "Is this all about?!"

"Bored."

I delayed my next response for a moment to let my incredulity rise. Once again, I found myself questioning this man who took me off the streets and the sanity I had to live with all his antics.

"What?"

Standing abruptly, he turned one direction, shot accurately at the wall, and then did the same in the other direction. All the time shouting "Bored!" with every shot. My patience was wearing thin really quick.

Afterwards he just stood there for a moment, staring at his handiwork of malace.

"Shouldn't you, oh I don't know, be sleeping? Like everybody else at this bloody hour?" I shouted as he calmed down and placed the emptied pistol in my hands.

He smirked, "And shouldn't you be resting your injuries?"

I stiffened and winced as my bones protested the action heavily.

"No-! I mean-! You-!," I sputtered, "This is clearly different!"

Sherlock raised his brows and sauntered away, leaning a tad on the arm chair as he responded, "Oh yes, my case is significantly different. So very different despite the fact that your scenario, as well as mine, both pertain to the same subject. That being of course the health that we both need to move on a daily occurrence," he shrugged, "But if you think my case is as stranded as you say, please doctor, be my guest and tell me how. I mean, you should know more about this than myself."

…. Bloody prat.

What's worse is that he is actually correct and I was acting like a child, trying to defend myself. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of being right. Not at all. Besides, he probably already knows anyhow.

As if my conversation held no merit to him at all, he sighed and walked to the window, staring out at the desolate streets. I resolved in leaning on the door frame that combines the kitchen and living room to lift the weight off my ankle. The pain lessened slightly and made my voice a little less strained and breathless.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice or care. His eyes was in another world in which deductions and crimes are the foundation for interest. The gaze he ensued was not seeing empty streets but possible outcomes for the next murder or probable profiles for the next criminal. Not here. Not on the peace.

I didn't say anything for a while. Trying to figure out what was chewing his thoughts. But it could have been anything. He gave no indications for the trouble he clearly held.

He was just watching outside the quiet streets, lit by lamps and lights of various hues and strength as if it was a monstrosity. It probably was. Something was bothering him clearly, but he wasn't going to mention it. That was against his foolish pride.

Wearily watching the detective, I decided to ask the one question that was bound to set him off, "What's wrong Sherlock?"

He didn't waste a breath, "What is wrong? John, I'm bored. So bored in fact that I would do anything to get rid of it. And before you ask 'Oh Sherlock, why are you so bored?' (I rose a brow at his high-pitched voice to represent my own), the reason in itself is so obvious. Waiting. I despise waiting."

I rolled my eyes, speaking my mind to the detectives tiny troubles, "You're like a child."

"No, John this is different!" I rose my brow at the turned tables of the situation but he failed to see it, "The criminal by this point should have found another victim. It's odd to see him taking so long. If my calculations were correct, and they always are, he should be committing another murder soon, but he is taking too long!"

"It's only been an hour!" I sighed exasperatedly.

"Still!" he insisted as he turned around in a swift one-eighty. Flinging his arms in the air he added, "I can't sit still and wait for him to make his move. I have been sitting in this room, trying to busy myself with musing over the time, yet I find that what may feel like 5 hours has only been 5 minutes. I'm so bored and this silence of the streets and peace," he sneered this word with distaste, "is not helping my dilemma. I need something to do!"

"Then sleep. Please do us all the favor," I requested with a hint of annoyance.

The look he gave me was one that was questioning my intelligence as always. I expected it. I hated the look, but said nothing to discern it.

"Sleep?" he echoed, "Sleep?"

I nodded.

He chuckled humorlessly and made wild gestures as he walked away from the window, "How can I sleep when every minuscule detail is being thouroughly analyzed? How are my eyes suppose to close when all I can think about is how I am to catch this criminal? Oh please, John, answer this: How is one who is constantly having his mind run on a wheel supposed to get It to shut up long enough to even sleep," he paused, "Oh wait, you wouldn't know now would you since your mind is purely simple? Careless bliss," he added another low chuckle, "I'm a consulting detective, John. Not some simpleton with ordinary issues and ordinary resolves."

Ignoring the insult, I rolled my eyes, "You're a drama queen."

"Excuse me?" he spoke with surprise, but I shook my head, refusing the option to relight his already burning fuse.

"Well, then find something to do that isn't blowing holes in poor Mrs. Hudson's walls. Read a book or write something. You have have a bloody violin over there, use it."

With one motion, he fell on to the couch and curled into his robe (When did he get into that thing?), "Too boring," he sulked.

Sighing, I walked over to the opposite arm chair and sat on the arm closest to the pouting detective, "How about music? That normally puts any person to sleep."

"Doesn't work."

"How do you know?" I questioned.

"It just doesn't." That means he never tried and is just being a whining child.

Standing once more, I walked in the direction of my room. I didn't walk five steps before I heard his inquiry, "What are you doing?"

"I'm getting my guitar. I'm going to play something."

"Don't waste your breath," he moaned.

I shrugged, now at the door, "It doesn't hurt for me to try. It's not like it's going to kill you, mate."

"It might as well," he said under his breath and I rolled my eyes.

Picking up the fallen guitar, I walked back to the arm chair and situated myself. Sherlock seemed to have rotated his pathetic self to watch me with mocking scrutiny.

At every little fix his deliberated annoyance seemed to grow in radiance.

I looked at him, "What?"

"How do expect to use that thing to put me to sleep?"

I tilted my head from side to side, "I don't know if it will work, but I'm just going to play. That's all I can do."

His tone quickly became sarcastic, "And somehow your questioning words are going to be some miraculous lullaby to qualm my voices and put me to sleep? Please, it would be best to leave me be."

I ignored him once more and strummed the bar instead, pleased when I realized my fingers were still raw from the earlier song. That saves some time which was good since I don't think Sherlock has the patience to watch me go through the familiar chords over and over.

Once I was done, I looked at Sherlock and smiled, "So what's your poison?"

The look on his face when I said that was priceless. It's like he had never heard the phrase before. I almost died right there from fits of laughter, but stifled it to minor giggles escaping my tight-lipped mouth. I didn't want him to completely block me out.

"I mean, what type of music do you prefer?" I corrected.

He held no hesitation, "Classical."

I pursed my lips. There might be some difficulty here. Last I checked, guitar was not known for the classical pieces. Those were strictly influenced on the violin and piano.

"Anything else?"

"None at all. Everything else in this world is complete rubbish or so atrocious that I'm not sure how it's even accounted for as music."

Of course he would think that.

I sighed, "I really need to introduce you to some music, refresh your tastes."

The response he gave was full of that sarcastic humor once more, "Oh, is my tastes somehow revolting? I don't remember asking for your opinion John, not at all. But if your are so persistent on changing my mind, please go ahead and try."

Letting out a groan, I glared at him, "What is your problem? If this is how you get when you're bored then clearly I need to get you to sleep quickly or give you something to do."

We glared at each other as if testing each other before he looked away. He merely shrugged and turned away to face the back of the couch.

After glaring at his back for countless seconds, I resigned with a hum to letting my fingers begin their tune. It was another past song, but maybe it will put this prat to sleep. He's grumpy already and that was an understatement right there.

_"This one's for the lonely, the one's that seek and find_  
><em>Only to be let down time after time<em>  
><em>This one's for the torn down, the experts at the fall<em>  
><em>Come on friends get up now you're not alone at all<em>

_Oh oh oh, oh oh oh_  
><em>Oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh<em>

_And this part was for her_  
><em>And this part was for her<em>  
><em>This part was for her<em>  
><em>Does she remember?<em>

_It comes and goes in waves_

_The one's for the faithless, the ones that are surprised_  
><em>They're only where they are now regardless of their fight<em>  
><em>This one's for believing if only for it's sake<em>  
><em>Come on friends get up now love is to be made<em>

_Oh oh oh, oh oh oh_  
><em>Oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh<em>

_And this part was for her_  
><em>And this part was for her<em>  
><em>This part was for her<em>  
><em>Does she remember?<em>

_It comes and goes in waves, I_  
><em>Am only led to wonder why<em>  
><em>It comes and goes in waves, I<em>  
><em>Am only led to wonder why<em>  
><em>Why, why I try<em>

_This is for the ones who stand_  
><em>For the ones who try again<em>  
><em>For the ones who need a hand<em>  
><em>For the ones who think they can<em>

_It comes and goes in waves, I_  
><em>Am only led to wonder why<em>  
><em>It comes and goes in waves, I<em>  
><em>Am only led to wonder why<em>  
><em>Why I, why, why I fly<em>

_Oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh_  
><em>Oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh<em>  
><em>Oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh<em>  
><em>Oh, oh oh oh, oh oh oh."<em>

When the song was over, I couldn't help but smirk triumphantly at the sleeping detective. A moment later that smirk turned to an expression of curiosity. Sherlock should try to tone down that mocking glare of his. He looks a lot better without it for sure.

Though I suppose so would everyone else if they never scowled.

I shook myself to my senses and stood with my guitar. A throw blanket caught my eye and I set the instrument down briefly to get it. Pulling the blanket hanging limply off the back of my armchair, I threw the blanket on top of the detective and heard him mumble an, "I'm fine." I knew he was sleeping soundly, but it didn't improve the half-hearted glare I gave him.

Fine. I couldn't help but scoff at the phrase.

So he says. If you ask me, I might as well test him for insomnia if this is what it's going to end up like every time he is waiting for something to occur.

I picked up the guitar again and walked to the switch.

With a flick of my wrist, I turned off the light in the room and walked to my own where the light was still vividly glowing.

As I got to the door frame where not 15 minutes ago I was arguing with a detective, I paused and turned to look at the peaceful man. His breathing was slow and he actually looked happy for once.

Well, if he didn't like being asleep, his body sure appreciated the thought.

"Good night," I murmured with a soft smile, "Sherlock."

In a quick motion the last of the lights were flicked off and the entire flat was plunged into darkness. It didn't take long for my consciousness to follow.

* * *

><p>Moriarty's POV<p>

I smiled as I saw the last lights of 221B go out and pranced over to Sebastian. He looked bored and judging by his itching finger, he wanted to already get our next masterpiece underway.

He wasn't the only one. After this murder I only have a few more to make and then I can finally meet this wonderful detective. The anticipation was killing me.

The plan was going splendidly if I did say so myself. The foolishly boring detective was following each clue without analyzing it's meaning. Like a bloodhound following the deceiving scent of a bigger predator. He was gliding towards a trap and he could see the next few steps to warn him.

Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

"Ready," I sung as I appeared next to Sebastian. He sighed and opened the door to our vehicle of choice.

"Why couldn't we have done this when he was at the last crime scene?" he asked with annoyance.

My mouth popped open as I gaped at him, "And give him the pleasure of being right about my antics? Sebby, you can't possibly be muttering such discretions! Besides," I smirked, "I wanted to watch him squirm knowing that he can never predict me as well as the rest of this ordinary crowd."

Sebastian remained silent and got into the driver's seat. We were off down the streets in less then 30 seconds.

"Oh Anna," I shouted as Sebby and I walked into the small flat decorated with pictures and notebooks, "How is our lovely victim?"

"Victims," A voice called out with a little bit of glee.

"Oh?" I peered around the corner to see two individuals, a female and male, both gagged and strapped to wooden chairs. They were watching us wildly and with a pleading look as well. It was almost like they expected me to save them. How silly... and absurd.

After all, I was the one to provoke this _lovely_ artist to a new medium.

"Victims," I repeated with a smirk and any muffled noises from the two went silent.

"Yes," Anna spoke with a small smile of her own, "I tried getting one, but a... oh, you could say my muse decided to spark and I just had to have the other one."

She tapped her cheek in thought while raising her glasses, "I suppose you were right on one thing, Moriarty. I've always fantasized murdering individuals for the... feel, but it's so much more pleasing and entertaining doing it in reality."

I chuckled and appeared next to her, Sebastian following suit, "Yes it is. You didn't let them scream did you?"

The woman shook her head quickly, almost annoyed with the thought of allowing such it seemed, "Of course not."

I patted her head and went to kneel in front of the soon to be victims, "Good girl. I taught you well. Now, what shall we do with these two?," I looked up at her after a moment, "Or do you have a plan?"

The sadistic grin that spread over the dark haired woman was one of horror for her intended mannequins, "Oh yes. I have something planned for them. Leave their shoulders up and hands untouched and unscathed. Everything else is completely yours."

Standing, I stood back once more and gave Sebastian a nod, "Go ahead, Sebby. I'm sure you would love to inflict these two unfortunate individuals."

"You don't have to tell me twice," he murmured lowly as he neared the victims.

Anna eyed the inflictions with mild amusement as she fetched a sketchbook laying haphazardly on the ground. Opening it, she presented me her idea with a high brow, clearly awaiting my comments.

"Magnificent as always, dear," I spoke, ignoring the silent cries beside me to eye the picture. This one was going to be interested to say the least. The screeches of the pair only enhanced the glee.

"It isn't that good, I assure you," she spoke slowly, watching the same scene with me, "but it will be interesting for our detective."

"Of course," I smiled, "this will be an interesting finale for your portfolio. And then you will make your appearance in the same light."

Anna looked pleased with the plan and we fell into silence as the couple became nothing but corpses.

Oh how they tried to scream. Oh how tears stained their bonds. It was pleasurable and entertaining. Ordinary humans are such fickle little things. I'm glad not to be a part of the group otherwise I would be horrified.

No blood spray was made. It was all precise and coordinated movements that led to each victim falling limp and hollow.

As Sebastian stepped back, I skipped to the bodies and looked at Anna. Her grin was still there.

"They are all yours, my dear."

She looked at me and pouted, " You're not going to stay?"

I gave a sheepish grin, "Oh I would, but you know. Murders to plan, bodies to stack, and ordinaries to dispose of. Besides, I wouldn't want to rain on your parade."

With that I handed her a note and waved.

When the door was shut behind me, Sebastian gave me a look," Why do you listen to her?"

"Hm? Oh Anna?," I snickered, "She's just a pawn on my game. Pawns are always the first to go."

_I personally hold no affection for the dying artist and she knows it._

"Why keep her then?"

I gave him an annoyed look, "Have I ever told you you ask too many questions?" I shook my head, "But anyhow, I keep her because she's the perfect bait to lead our consulting detective out."

"And when she becomes defective?"

_Which will be soon._

I grinned, "Then we do what we always do to defective toys. We throw them out."

Once outside the building, I laughed with childish glee.

All these murders and lovely baffling plots was making this plan almost like Christmas.

_And the present had yet to be given._

* * *

><p><em>So... two songs in this chapter. I did one, but then Sherlock wouldn't shut up later on after that, so I brought a second one. The first song is Asleep by Emily Browning (although I believe that version is a cover...?) and the second song is Comes and Goes (In Waves) by Greg Laswell if memory serves well. They have been on my list for the longest time. Literally, I have a list of songs I will use if it's the last thing I do. I still have a lot of music.<em>

_Anyhow, I showed Anna. She's a temporary murderer. As Moriarty said, she is dying and she will not last much longer. Though, she will not leave without a spotlight on her. I can't wait to write the next murder. I pictured it and adored it and *dreamy sigh* it's going to be so fun to write! My sadistic side is showing~_

_Sorry for the horrible quality of this chapter. I will try for a better one next chapter. I have seriously thought of dedicating an entire chapter to Moriarty because writing his POV is the best thing for me, and the easiest thing ever. Flamboyant little psychopath~_

_Little hint for the next chapter, John is not going to have a pleasant sleep... not at all. Poor dear. I screwed him over the second I wrote him..._

_So! That being said, thank you for reading and as always leave a review or favorite or just read it! Whatever is fine!_

_Ciao~! ^^_


	12. Chapter 12

_So here is the next chapter! Not too late right? It would have been updated Saturday but I was at San Japan (an anime/comic convention) and I was tired... still am. Can't move. Headache driving me insane. But nothing awful I suppose._

_Okay, so the POV is slightly weird in this but it works. It was going to be all John but Sherlock needed his moment of fame to show his character development._

_Chapter 13 is barely sketched out. So vaguely in fact that it's only 1000 words and remember I make them 8000 at least. A long process is ahead of me, but at least it's there!_

_Well, enjoy. :)_

_Disclaimer: i do not own Sherlock_

* * *

><p>Muse Ch. 12<p>

**_John's POV_**

When I opened my eyes, I was in one of those rare green zones in Afghanistan. Dry wind was brushing our clothes and sanding our exposed skin. It was time for our lunch and McCoy was joking with the other greenies. It was amusing despite the rubbish we were forced to choke down.

I looked up and sighed at the shade the large tree was giving. It was refreshing. We all had agreed this would be a good spot. It was blistering hot and utterly unbearable, especially with the sun at its peak. This tree was practically a life saver. Out of the glaring sun and stinging winds. Nobody complained.

The food was left untouched. At least, my portion was. I didn't feel hungry and was enjoying the company and comfort more so than anything. The other men appeared to be thinking the same as they animated their conversations and jokes. It was all smiles and laughs instead of serious missions and risky rescues. I believed I was speaking for the whole group when I said we were grateful for this break, even if it was a really brief one.

Since I was so absorbed in the peace, I never noticed the color draining from the scene or the background melting away. Lost in a fog of illusions.

But I noticed eventually.

As time wore on, my team's mumbles turned to buzzing and from there to mere rustles in the wind. I didn't think anything different. I assumed they decided to finally eat their poor excuse of meals. They weren't picky eaters after all. Maybe when they got here they were, but after eating this rubbish for so long, you tended to lose any sense of taste to begin with.

So everything was normal. As normal as memories could be.

I was completely unaware of the impending nightmares.

At least, until I noticed the shadow of the tree turning fiery and creating these stringy structures that resembled thickly to flames. That wasn't it. It was only emphasized more so with the nauseating red tint on the ground. Occasionally, orange would glimpse through the red with flashes of yellow.

I hated the imagery. The resemblance. The familiarity. I felt like I wanted to curl up or get sick just from the sight of it and knowing where this was going to head. It was clear and I prepared what will I had left to steel against whatever it through at me.

But it was pointless. I do control my dreams, but nightmares seemed to completely avoid my power. I can't grip what I can't see, like the darkness that fingers through my visions with tentative amusement and torturous glee. I can't fight darkness unless light is present but seeing as I have none left, gone with the wind, I'm the victim of my own mind.

A sharp call pierced through my thoughts as I noticed the radioactive auras reaching closer and closer to my own backed up form.

With a jerk I looked up again to see the tree, once in full bloom and prosperous, now shriveled to death. It held no flowers, no leaves, not even a small creature on its branches. It was dead.

I suppose it couldn't have been of any use though. Not with the sun completely gone. All that was with me were the curious shadows.

That wasn't the only thing that died suddenly. Many aspects began to join the similar status as if death came with his scythe and cut off the life of all that remained visually healthy. The breeze that coursed through the area had died down as well to lifeless and bare. Silence was droning on in this area and the hairs on my arms begun to stand.

Something was going to happen. Something always happens in these kind of things. I just didn't know if I would like what appeared.

I didn't take my eyes off the tree, hoping that a spark would occur and the tree would be alive again. That a savior would appear to protect me. I didn't have a weapon against my dreams. No pistol can shoot it to bits. No stealth will protect me from its searching fingers. No orders will make it retreat. I am a soldier, was a soldier, but I couldn't guard myself against my own night terrors.

So I awaited an unlikely miracle, hoping, for once, that a surprise would occur.

But it never happened.

Instead a average sized raven decided to land on one of the stronger branches. That is, if dead branches can hold any strength. The raven appeared to have made itself home with its black feathers molding into the tree bark.

Twitching its head, it looked straight at me.

It cried loudly and obnoxiously and almost immediately the wind picked up to the howling and screeching of banshees. I covered my ears but it didn't muffle them in the slightest.

The wind was strong, but not strong enough to lift me. Actually, despite the high-pitched howls, it didn't even lift a hair on my head. It was almost like I was in the eye of a hurricane, except the sound wasn't like that in a movie. It was deafening and had it not been a dream, I would have been deaf within the first five minutes.

I could only keep my hands to my ears in vain attempts of keeping out the foreboding sounds. It sounded to close to the screams of men.

Wait, men.

My eyes widened. My men. I forgot about my men. They are probably paralyzed by this weather-

But they weren't there.

Something else was instead and the mere sight of it almost made my head spin. I didn't want to see them.

I glanced at where my men were sitting and instead noticed 12 neatly arranged body bags. Cleansed white except for the dirt on the bottom, as if recently placed on the ground. They were all unzipped and flapping in the winds deranged turmoil.

I couldn't see the bodies. The flaps of the bags kept getting in my view so I couldn't see what I guessed were my men.

The wind only grew louder and more erratic as time wore on. It was hectic but I didn't know how to stop it. Slowly my fingers grew cold. It gradually escalated to my arms and legs. I didn't know what to do since I couldn't move from the spot. It was like I was a frozen block of ice except the ice was invisible.

I did one of the few things I last expected to do.

I prayed that it would get better. I prayed like I've never prayed ever, but nothing changed.

In all actuality, it only got worse.

The bodies rose from their body bags like Dracula in his coffin. They were pale, lifeless, a doll. The suits they honored were still on their bodies along with a flag to patronize me and my abilities. Expressions stained in a permanent frown. Fingertips scorched black. The burns that adorned their faces like paint splatter. I couldn't look them in the eyes. I couldn't.

Because when I did, all I saw was every level of despair, betrayal, and hurt. The mistrust they reflected was a stab in the back and with each mark it left, the knife would be retrieved so I could briefly understand it's infliction before it went at me again. Refreshing my skin with the old blood that saw the death of me men. Refilling the system with new blood still tainted with their saddened expressions. No matter how many times the system was to be changed, I was always chained to the past.

And I deserved it. I couldn't save them with what talents I supposedly had and now I still can't use them to put their unease at rest. I was worthless and the additional fact that I was a soldier for so long, a doctor for longer, only mocked it further. How does a man who knows a surgery like a back of his hand and a sniper with his other still fail in saving the lives of men he promised to bring home?

With as much death that surrounds me, I might as well be skilled in the methods of death. The reaper trained me with his scythe and I followed with no hesitancy. It was how I lost so many who were close to me. Instead of training me like he had, the reaper handed me his scythe for the final initiation. The final blow.

And I did it with no hesitancy.

My men spoke softly in the background. Presenting their despair. If my dream was a canvas, their words would be blue and black to describe the uncertainty and depression they pleaded for me to understand.

"Why didn't you warn us, sir?" One questioned quietly.

"Yes, why sir? Why?" Echoed another.

"You could have saved us," a third mused quietly.

I ignored them. I tried to anyhow. I held no right to prohibit their mourning. I didn't hold an inkling of that right.

But as the time wore on, their inflictions became more vicious.

"You could have saved us, sir."

"Could have told us to run, sir."

"Why didn't you say anything, sir?"

"It's because of you we're are dead."

"It's because of you our wives are mourning."

"And we can't go home and comfort them."

"And it's all because of you, sir."

The list of assaults and accusations went on and on like a mantra. At first I was able to let them run down like dripping water. I was able to discern them. But I couldn't hold out forever. My men knew this and kept at it. Eventually I broke.

"I'm sorry!" I cried, tired of this madness.

Tears fell down my face but they didn't taste of salt. They tasted metallic of the life drained from the corpses in front of me. It wasn't salt and bearable. Each drop that dribbled between my lips onto my tongue was another reminder to what I failed to achieve In duty. Each little drop brought it's own dysphoria. Those small tears that sank through my skin so easily were the blood and tears my own group was defied to perform of their own accord. I was crying their tears. I was bleeding their blood.

Yet I still cried. The tears of regret and remorse never showed no signs of stopping. It was endless. A waterfall. Something I couldn't control no matter how much I fought. The bloody tears would spill and drip onto the grass beneath me and eventually the browned grass was tainted crimson. Soon after, the collected tears became a small puddle reaching out for new land. With all the tears I let loose, I was creating my own suicide. All I was missing was the wound.

Cracks were beginning to outline the faintest of my skin. It began to create contours and crevices of what parts were still in my control. My skin resembled porcelain, the blood running through those veins and arteries absorbed into the ground. The fragility made each clench and every constriction another puncture in my form.

It's funny. I always knew I was this way. A pathetic doll. And now this nightmare made it all too real.

All that was left was enough wounds to ground me to dust. My men didn't hesitate with the offer.

"Sorry can't bring us back, sir," they continued.

"I'm sorry," I whimpered.

"Sorry can't make our hearts start, sir," said another.

"I'm sorry..." I whispered.

"Sorry can't take away the betrayal, sir," stated the third.

"I'm so sorry," I choked.

I didn't know what to do so I curled into a ball, trying to block out the voices but blocking out the wind only made the voices so much louder. It was like there was a speaker in my head and each of their voices were echoed in its surface. I couldn't make them stop, no matter how much I wanted to.

And the reason was because I didn't deserve the mercy in my eyes.

They were right. It was all my fault. It's because of my that the lives that pursued so vibrantly were snuffed out. They grew brightly in intelligence, agilitiy, pride, and loyalty and all it took was the harsh winds of the dead to strangle those personalities so. With a single blow, their murmurs of home and love were hushed. With a lone snatched of vigilance, the colors of life were bleached white and lifeless. The one who took them was the one they allowed to paint those strokes on the canvas.

Me.

While the words slashed my facade to shreds, I began to prepare myself for the rest of my restless night. It was bound to be a long one... or a tiring one.

The crow cried above, a surprised shriek, and suddenly it flew away. I was confused when I suddenly heard a violin play. It was beautiful and original. If it was visible, peace and amity would be in view like a small flame in a very dark room. I closed my eyes and concentrated on its chords and notes, the only noise that brought an ounce of comfort in this deranged dream.

Surprisingly, it helped, though I expected the notes to suddenly spiral to a horror tune or some other creature to mock me so.

But no, it was pure. The dead tree next to me suddenly grew a lit and sprouted small patches of green to cover their branches. A few flowers came to bloom as well. The difference of the colors from the previous version only made it more welcoming.

Eventually, the voices were gone. A little while after that, the wind died to a breeze. The only noise left was the savior of the violin. Whoever was playing it was the reason I'm not broken, the reason I'm not quivering in fear.

Blinking back the tears I had let escape earlier, I looked around to find out what happened to the voices, but when I looked at the ground where they were, all I saw was empty seats. No body bags. No corpses. No mantras. They were all gone.

Of course, my men weren't there either, but I had an eery feeling that if they were, all I would be able to see would be their charred faces and accusatory glares instead if innocent laughter and meaningless smiles.

So being alone was, for once, a lot better than company.

I sighed in relief and then felt the guilt slowly sink in.

'Another time' I promised myself solemnly before standing. I dusted my old army uniform but was surprised when the fabric fell away to my usual attire: a cream jumper, white button up, and jeans that were worse for wear.

I didn't freak out or anything of the sort. Instead, I decided to accept and forget it. This was a dream. I shouldn't be astonished by what it could configure.

Satisfied with my stability for the moment, I peered in the direction where the violin music was coming from and walked towards it. Partially out of curiosity and mostly because I knew it would protect me.

'Protect me?' I thought, 'since when does my mind ever protect me? I wouldn't be shocked if those wonderful strings sliced me to bits with their notes whispering bitter nothings.'

I stopped for a moment and cursed myself.

God I felt so weak.

Then I started walking again. Blindly following the music that I barely understood and placed faith in for some odd reason.

My mind must have been trying to get to me for a while now, the side that moved on, because as I moved on it made its message known. It wasn't so bluntly said either. Apparently my mind still had some creativity in its nerves.

Every few meters a piece of sheet music would be on the ground. Being a music-sort, I couldn't deny them at all. I picked them up because they seemed to be telling something. The specific something that I could never come to terms with.

"Take all reasonable advantage of that which the present may offer you. It is the only time, which is ours. Yesterday is buried forever, and tomorrow we may never see," was written on the first.

"Yesterday is but today`s memory, tomorrow is today`s dream," was the next.

With each passing step, another and another would fly by just low enough for me to catch it. In total, it must have been 13.

It was as said:

"Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment."

"Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future."

"Learn from the past, set vivid, detailed goals for the future, and live in the only moment of time over which you have any control: now."

"You build on failure. You use it as a stepping stone. Close the door on the past. You don't try to forget the mistakes, but you don't dwell on it. You don't let it have any of your energy, or any of your time, or any of your space."

"The distinction between the past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion."

"The past is prophetic in that it asserts loudly that wars are poor chisels for carving out peaceful tomorrow."

"Forgiving does not erase the bitter past. A healed memory is not a deleted memory. Instead, forgiving what we cannot forget creates a new way to remember. We change the memory of our past into a hope for our future."

"We cannot change our past. We can not change the fact that people act in a certain way. We can not change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude."

"Once I knew only darkness and stillness... my life was without past or future... but a little word from the fingers of another fell into my hand that clutched at emptiness, and my heart leaped to the rapture of living."

"Yesterday's the past, tomorrow's the future, but today is a gift. That's why it's called the present."

"The past is a ghost, the future a dream, and all we ever have is now."

They were all related to the one area of expertise I abhorred the most: the past. Nonetheless, I picked up every note and read every word. It must have been because of my curiosity. That's all I could think because the other option meant I was trying to change my miserable circumstances. Each word made me want to take that step into forgiving, but then I would take the step back because of doubt and uncertainty. The aphorisms were famous words from many famous people made specifically for me it seems.

Letting them slip through my fingers, I felt sick. Move on from the past? What had I done to deserve such mercy?

I was soon swiftly interrupted by the music once more. Every negative thought was swindled by the tones It made and I decided to drop it as I started up the path once more.

The violin began playing at a slower tempo as my steps neared it. Each step was engraved to the beat of the song the violinist seem to be performing. The notes were almost visible and I could differentiate each A from a B flat.

But it didn't change the beauty of the entire piece.

I was transfixed into the music. I just wished to know who was making it, but of course that meant me moving to the top. My determination was fueled and I didn't hesitate to hasten my speed.

At last, I reached the top, but I saw no man. Again, I wasn't shocked. Not at all. I expected it a little, but my feet still paused at the sight ahead of me. No man or woman was guiding the bow of the instrument.

Instead, it seemed to be floating in the air by its own accord, controlling it's own movements. It swooped around me constantly, the notes following its trail. All I could do was stare.

In the back of my mind, a little voice whispered this wasn't exactly normal and it wasn't. Not at all. This was definitely extraordinary. But that's why they called it a dream.

And I was glad to say it was not a nightmare as before.

Almost instantly I felt a thick layer of fog cloud me and soon after darkness. It gradually sprinkled over my sight and I didn't fight it.

The darkness didn't frighten me this time though. Instead I was guided through it with the instrument that originally saved me from my own night terrors.

-  
><strong><em>Sherlock's POV<em>**

Of all possibilities I thought of that could wake me up, John whimpering in his sleep was far at the bottom of the list. It was uncharacteristically different from his usual demeanor that I never pondered it for more than a second really. But, that did not mean it was pushed outside my realms of probably outcomes. After all, I did say it was on the bottom of the list, not off of it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly over and over again.

I would have been annoyed with him, I mean I already was, but the mere sound of it made it a pitiful sight. Part of me wanted to wake him up so we could do something productive, but then I thought it pointless since John would be in a state of disarray. The status does not ever match with success and I need him in his best state of mind, whatever that is.

It still didn't change the fact that slumber was in the far corridors of my mind now that I was awake. I couldn't do much but mull over what his obvious night terrors could be filled with. It would be dull if it was something so ordinary. The stereotypical monster? The boring darkness? Or was it something from his past? Any of these were a interesting, if not cliché, triggers for such cries.

And I was intrigued greatly. I hated not knowing and John appears to winning at that game much to my annoyance.

Opening my eyes, I sighed to myself and glance at the door to John's bedroom.

"He gets annoyed at me for trying to sustain not being bored and here he is making noise as well that could wake somebody, particularly myself, up," I grumble as I change to a sitting position.

Slowly, I creeped towards the room where John was supposedly sleeping. As I got closer, I could make out more of the mumbles. They were incoherent at best, but I could faintly understand the "Sorry won't start our hearts" in one of his many mutterings. I leaned against the door and tried to catch more, but all that emanating from the man was the cries of fear.

My curiosity peaked at the mere thought of what that phrase could mean. Clearly death. It didn't take an idiot to figure that out. According to his terror, he caused it, or at least feels he has. I was content creating a more substantial thesis on his mind, but sitting down close to the door got annoying. John is probably asleep, deeply no doubt, so opening to the door shouldn't be too loud. Besides, my interest was piqued. I wasn't going to leave now when I could gather some interesting details I could use to pull the others out.

John was just a piece of holed wood, bitter and charred and brittle. Each memory and ability were rusted nails. All I needed was a hammer to yank those old nails out before they are rusted beyond comprehension. Shouldn't be too difficult.

Besides, it would give me some more insight on this reclusive doctor. More data leads to more deductions and more characteristics that I can catalogue. I wouldn't miss the chance at all. Only a fool would, meaning possibly 98% of the current boring population.

Even though the army must have trained light sleeping into his agenda, it seems it wasn't active as I opened the door softly. He stirred slowly to curl into himself, but that was all. I was quite pleased with my ability to open the door as softly as it had. Quite easy actually. Amateur. Turning the knob excruciatingly slow so it doesn't click but just slides out quietly. It was the easiest trick in the book. Well, more like common sense actually.

I could see John's face vaguely and it didn't look like it had all changed expression.

Perfect.

My feet lightly padded across the floor as I sit at John's chair. I look at his face and mull over how he doesn't seem to ever look peaceful in his sleep. Clearly nightmares are bothering him. His constant movements mean it's probably a force he can't reckon with and therefore can't contradict. The whimpered apologies would deal with something of his past. On top of that, they more than likely bother him every night and by the characteristics of his demeanor, he doesn't let things bother him too easily so something scarring, but before he met me.

Not from the streets. He's had them for a while judging from the markings on his face. He squints his eyes a lot when he sleeps to not see what he knows will occur. Not to mention the faint lines on his forehead to indicate stress. So before the streets.

Simple, Army. He was stationed in Afghanistan before his randevous that landed him discharged. Something in his past while on the lines has affected him. Connecting this with the previous phrase he uttered meant somebody more than likely died under his watch. I didn't believe it was by his hand. John didn't seem the man to perform that sort of ordeal.

Therefore, it was an accident. It had to be. Due to the emphasis or loyalty and honor in John's personality, he felt it was his fault no doubt. He must have been in charge. He was a captain if I remember correctly as well as an army doctor. I suppose failing in both of those titles crushed him.

Ah, human minds are such fickle little things. And yet, this is all speculation. A thesis.

Annoyance filled me immediately. Ugh. If only he would open his eyes or say something to give me something to think of! Apologies and facial structure, albeit very telling, is not the most preferred method. Although, I would still be at a loss if he was conscience. He's very protective of what emotions he does express.

So unsure of what to say. Uncertain of what not to. It would be so much easier for all of us, mostly myself, if he would only speak his mind.

But he doesn't see it the same as me. Why must he be so difficult?

He doesn't want me to know but relents the fact that I will find out. At least he understands it's inevitable. The past is something he believes will change my mind more than likely considering he is very aware of what people perceive him as. He is certain I will despise him.

I wanted to laugh at that. Oh John, if you only knew my past. You would be wondering constantly who has it worse? The one who did it willingly or the one who held no control. Except, mine weren't necessarily secrets to begin with. If he were to ask, I would tell him with no hesitancy.

But he hasn't asked. And since he hasn't asked, I'm not going to tell. Clearly it's not important enough to discuss and I would personally not like to dwell on the past.

I sigh heavily. Secrets are so very telling, but they are harder to decipher without proper notations.

How irritating.

Glaring at John's face like he was the problem - and in some ways he was damn him - I let out a quiet huff and instead observe the room for more details. I need knowledge. Something to go through and put away. All this... normalcy is rather dull.

And this doctor, however evasive, was not. There was something about him that interested me. Perhaps it was the praise he bestows upon me so easily - It is rather flattering after all to have someone recognize my talents- or the way he always seems to know what to say or suggest. It was unusual, but not unlikable.

Though I only allow such comments from him. Everybody else just doesn't hold the same effect. Donovan and Anderson are as worth listening to as watching paint dry - meaning not worth listening to at all - and Lestrade, however worthy as they are, are not the same as the doctor's. I despised human emotion, mainly for the reason that I couldn't understand it. It was rather confusing to be so persuaded by one individual where as I previously held no notions in any.

Leaning on my knees, I peer at the doctor in wonder and slight confusion. What is so different about this doctor that actually allows me to listen to him, do as he asks, and never truly bite back in full venom. It doesn't make sense. No matter how many times I go through the data, backwards and forwards, a conclusion could not be breached.

I shook my head and look about the room as originally planned. Right. Save those personal questions for sometime other. It wasn't important. Not right now anyways.

What was important wasn't necessarily important either. It was actually just more attractive in my views than the other areas I tend to lack knowledge in.

Room, Sherlock.

Forcing my thoughts to a stand still, I observed the room.

His quarters was definitely untouched. It's clear that he moved barely at all. That could have been from pain or exhaustion. If he was exhausted, he would have prepared for bed, but he was still fully dressed in his casual attire so pain was evident. He didn't want to change because of the injuries. Why didn't he take the medicine prescribed to him then? Idiot.

Hm.. the rest of the room is fairly untouched except for the guitar and it's case, as predicted. I knew he would go to it. He is attached to his guitar intensely from his past so sighting such an instrument makes him somewhat euphoric. Although he would rather have stayed where he was, he placed the instrument before his own health (an aspect I judged when I first met him due to the lack of any scratches on his case yet he himself held countless markings and scars).

Played a song he did. How typical. A very virtuoso man to be blunt. His voice is not awful and his playing is definitely something to observe. He let's his emotions loose when he plays. Must take a note of this and watch him later.

After this thought, nothing struck me as anything more than ordinary.

The rest was common sense. He heard my release of boredom, took my toy away, and then sang me a lullaby to put me to sleep. It was like he was a mother to a child and I certainly was not one of those.

"I'm sorry."

My eyes immediately locked on John's face as something reflective fell down his cheek. Tears? Hm... it's a nightmare treading on thin ice. An event that was without a doubt the same Moriarty used. Still fresh in his thoughts, though fresher due to the criminal.

Of course, I hadn't a clue of what that could be.

I hold back the groan. I just wish I knew what it was! Everybody seems to know except me and I hate not knowing. It's insufferable. Almost worse then Brother dear.

...Almost.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered again and a twinge of pity formed into my heart.

Heart? No. I was a machine. I couldn't feel -shouldn't feel- anything akin to this emotion. A cold exterior and an even worse interior. I certainly didn't hold sympathy for this man.

Sympathy? When did pity turn to sympathy? I must analyze this. I don't like this at all this confusion and mix up of emotions. It's different and I was never a huge fan of different things if they involved people and physical interaction.

It was a topic I vaguely understood and therefore lacked any sort of obvious knowledge in. Rather annoying really as much as anything else.

Nonetheless, a small feeling of being protection strangely filled me.

Absolutely absurd.

Without another second to give the abnormal emotions a chance to grow, I dash from the room stealthily. As a minor precaution, I left the door to his room open.

I just needed some time away to sort my data and thoughts. Too much data and not enough on him. Mostly it was myself and my reaction to his apparent distress. It was something relatively the same as... caring... but I couldn't hold such compassion for him. Especially for a man I just met. It was irrational, illogical...

But not entirely impossible.

Sitting in my arm chair, I tap my fingers anxiously, awaiting for John to stop his cries. I can't concentrate when there is noise in the room and John isn't helping at all with that factor of speaking.

'Music tends to calm the nerves.'

I blinked as the piece of information floated into my view.

Music.

It wouldn't be incorrect I suppose, though the thesis is quite general and would depend on the type of person and music. Too many variables.

John's whimpers briefly got louder before faltering to mere cries.

A glare was sent to the man, but it was more so half-hearted than anything.

"I don't know if it will work, but I'm just going to play. That's all I can do."

Grabbing my violin, I stuck my chin on the rest and placed my palms in the proper positions. I don't need any music sheets. Please, those are so boring. I'd rather create my own music that Is to my standards, not some rubbish that was clearly poorly planned. Although, my playing can be a hit or miss when it comes to if my style is accepted by others.

It could wake John up.

Well, I suppose that will still calm his nightmares so I don't see the point in not playing.

It was beneficial whether he liked it or not.

I was about to guide the bow when I paused momentarily. What is my mood for this piece? Something of value or something of the past? I can play this instrument, but the music I play is so much different then the instrument itself. Melancholy matched with beauty. Sadness rivaling glee. So many countless possibilities.

"Ah...," I sighed to myself, "I'm thinking too much into it."

I've always been criticized for that. Thinking about each note I play instead of playing it with euphoria. No, I shouldn't be scrutinizing the music. Time is of the essence in calming John. Saving him if the heroic phrase were to be used. Dwindling my determination by my cursed mind is an aspect that should be ignored to perform it.

With a resigned expression, I let my wrists and posture push and pull the bow onto it's strings.

"I don't know if it will work," I murmured, "but I'm just going to play. It's all I can do. That is what he said because he understood the variables. Even so, he still pushed on with a look of determination I've come to admire in him."

The song continued on as I spoke quietly of these small nonsensical pieces of information. Something to muse over and to break the consistency of whimpers and cries.

"My playing is far from atrocious, but could it be enough?" I sigh, pulling the bow at the length of the noise, "If not, there isn't much more I can do besides giving him medicine or something of the sort. The last thing I need is for Mycroft to come and speak of how the doctor is deficient. Mainly because he isn't. He's not at all faulty, except for perspective, but a fresher perspective never hurt, did it?

"No... he's useful. He's not loud, or rambunctious, or annoying. He works with me and not many do qualify for that category. The praise he expels is definitely not painful. Not to mention how he seems to know what I want to do or follow. He is far from useless. Although 'Brother Dear' would argue that."

Without realizing it, John's apologies seemed to have faltered to silence. I felt relieved but then questioned the action.

Shaking my head, I placed my steps carefully until I got to the door to John's room. When I looked in, John's face was relaxed and even the faintest of smiles adorned its surface. It was nice at least.

It still doesn't explain my sudden relief in his expression. Why should I worry over such an individual? Yes, he is my partner in crime, so-to-speak, but it still doesn't match up with my emotions. What are these?

I closed the door and walked to the couch, resting my hands in their natural thinking pose.

Let's think rationally. Being confused and pointing fingers will not make the conclusion any quicker to create.

A frustrated sigh escapes my lips.

I do seem to hold a small portion of wonder for the man. Most of what is there is mainly interest of his past. What happened. What he did. What was done. That sort of utter nonsense. This was something else entirely and it wasn't truly welcomed. I was a machine. I felt no emotions, was evasive of pain, and cared for no one.

Yet these... feelings still plague me. An unwanted acquaintance.

Closing my eyes, I groaned lowly at the irritation. If only John was awake. Maybe he could explain these strange auras. I was an expert in deductions and of the sort, not human emotion. It is so different and collides differently with my cold exterior. Like ice to a flame.

Perhaps when John wakes up I should ask him. Though, that would be conceding to weakness and stupidity. Not to mention he was the main attraction of this equation. It was his fault I felt these. Entirely his fault and I still couldn't despise him.

Putting these thoughts at rest, I decided to get back to them later. When I didn't have a case I needed to finish and complete to the fullest of my expectations.

I glance at the clock and grin a little at the time. 6 A.M. I figured by this time the next body would be made. Hopefully.

Rising from the seat I make my way to the bathroom. After a short shower and washing my face, I go change into my usual attire. I only took 15 minutes at most to do this and was out with the exceptions of my dress shoes.

When I got out, I glance at the clock again and release a anxious sigh. What's taking so long?

Pulling the foot wear on, I pace in front of the door for a moment before tugging my coat on and wrapping the scarf around my neck. I might as well be ready.

I was tempted to call the inspector but faltered when I concluded I had maybe a few minutes left for his arrival, hopefully.

And I was right.

As always.

Almost on cue, light-footed steps ran up the stairs. Soon after a soft tap landed on the door.

I didn't hesitate.

In my anticipation, I opened the door and immediately bombarded the detective with the usual, "Where?"

"E-"

"Wait," I paused, "Your outfit is still together and you clearly are not out of breath so it must be far. Considering your vehicle is outside and you never use it unless out of London, it's further than the boundaries, but not an overnight trip. Maybe a few hours away. You also seem to smell of heavy vegetation and of the sort so it wasn't the city. Countryside no doubt. But we have plenty of green areas so," I quickly took out my phone and searched a fact to be positive, " ah... Judging by the soil on your foot, appearing to be almost Blackheath soil, I would assume Greenwich. But not directly in the area. Am I correct?"

After rolling his eyes, he smiled and nodded, "yeah. In fact, Teal Street, Greenwich, SE10. A flat owned by a couple. Double homicide."

I clapped my hands, "wonderful! Let's be on our way then."

He rose his brow, "John?"

I hesitated and looked into the room where John was currently sleeping soundly, "What about him? I don't need him to accompany my everywhere and no doubt I will solve it in less time than needed. He isn't necessary right now."

Lestrade gave me a look I fully recognized, but ignored. Wrapping the scarf around my neck a little tighter, I finally met his gaze.

"Is there something you would like to add, Detective Inspector?" I questioned with mock courtesy.

"Actually yes," he shuffled his feet, "at least leave the mate something to do. That doesn't mean chores."

"He's fine-" I scoffed.

"Sherlock!"

"Fine!" I exclaimed, stomping over to get my laptop and making the trip to John's room to place it on the desk.

Quickly scribbling a note down and typing an extra into the laptops notepad, I left the room, muttering over how it's hard to please everybody in this damned worlf.

Once I got back, I glared at the inspector, "Happy?"

He smiled, "Not until you see the crime scene."

Following Lestrade, I muttered, "at least I can be entertained by that. Crime scenes are a better forte for myself than being... considerate."

**_John's POV_**

When I awoke, I was surprised to actually feel like I slept some. It was a first in a long time for me, considering the plague of nightmares I had following me like rabid dogs.

_Nightmares_.

God... those were abnormal. That nightmare was a lot different than any other I have had. It felt almost like it wanted to shred me apart, which was different to the usual stab in the heart.

But... it also, wasn't a nightmare. At least, at the end it wasn't. That violin music. I've never heard of it, but it somehow cured me of my reckless dreaming and aided in the actual sleeping of my actions. It protected me if you will. And I still don't know where it came from.

It doesn't matter I guess. I just hope I didn't wake up Sherlock. That would have not only worsened his mood, but also would have placed my music at a waste in the first place. I probably should have warned him of those. He did warn me of his... worst parts of him, even though they were nothing compared to what I have seen him do thus far.

Gun shots. In the middle of the bloody night.

And from what I hear, he has a long list after that one little fact.

_Fun_.

Rising from my bed, I get up and blink. Since when did I have a laptop? Especially one of that caliber on my desk?

On top of it was a little note. I could barely see the scrawl of "John".

I rolled my eyes. Sherlock. Again.

Deciding to test my injuries, I stand slowly. First on my good leg, then hesitantly on my sprained ankle. I sighed when I only felt a dull throb in it's bones. Returning to my normal pose, I was glad to note that my scratches seemed to have begun to heal and didn't bother me as much as last night. They only rejected my movements when I tried to stretch my muscles, which was expected.

The sun reflected off the surface of the laptop once more and I nodded as if confirming my agenda.

Right. The laptop.

Taking a seat in the chair, I picked up the note. Annoyance filled me with every single little word on it. How am I not surprised?

_Went to a case. Don't call me, I doubt I will answer. If your awake before I get back, entertain yourself with something, but don't touch the milk in the fridge. – S.H._

Crumpling the note, I toss it aside and shake my head. Typical Sherlock alright. I should probably get used to this though since he is quite flamboyant and trying to list his reactions is going to be hard as is. I might as well remember the ones that will happen more frequently than not. Like this.

"Still wish he would have at least woken me up," I grumbled as the laptop screen lit to it's normal blue interface. No password so I just awaited for the screen to go to the wallpaper of the home screen.

It didn't take long. Within a few seconds everything was loaded. It seems that Sherlock doesn't use this thing at all. Opening the normal web browser, I look curiously at a few web sites. I haven't been on the internet in a while so seeing what has happened in the last few months or years is quite amusing if not worrying.

Shaking my head, I was about to start shutting down the lid when the notepad symbol on the screen appeared to be glowing orange. I wasn't an idiot. I knew that this meant something was there for me and it's not like I had anything better to do before the detective got back to exclaim whatever annoyances he may have.

As expected, it was another note from the infamous git of a detective.

_Lestrade mentioned I should leave you something to keep you occupied. Do whatever you please. I don't care; start a blog, watch videos, search music. I don't use the thing and find little to no function of having it so keep it even. -S.H._

"Start a blog?" I murmured, more so in curiosity. I suppose a blog wouldn't be a bad thing. Something to keep me busy and actually give me a sense of purpose when the detective was gone.

But what would I write? Clearly not my past for everyone to see. I can't complain about the weather either. It's all just... boring.

Damn it. I blame Sherlock for this.

Wait, Sherlock. Maybe I could write about the cases we go on? It would be interesting and exciting and maybe the git will be pleased with it. He might get more cases after all if people read what brilliance he held in that thick skull of his.

Stretching my fingers, I quickly pull up the browser once again and began the easy process of building a blog. It wasn't that hard. But after I entered all the information and stared at the first entry to type for the site, I blanked.

I am an idiot. Really? Write a blog about Sherlock? What would that make me? His loyal blogger?

I sighed.

Well, it's not going to hurt.

_'15th July_

_The Melted Artist_

_I've blacked out a few names and places because of legal matters but, other than that, this is what happened during the week I moved in with Sherlock Holmes.'_

After that, I stopped. It was practically amateur hour I suppose. How was I going to blog about a case the consulting detective and I performed if it wasn't solved yet? I wasn't going to release two blogs at different intervals. For some reason, that seemed like it would interrupt the amazing talents of the detective.

Shutting the lid, I scooted away from the laptop. So, I had to await until the case was solved, which knowing Sherlock, wouldn't take too long.

**_Crash._**

I stopped.

Was Sherlock back? No that couldn't be. I would be hearing his droning voice from here the second he walked in and he held a sense of grace in his walk. He wouldn't crash into something of his own accord. It just wasn't like him.

Is it possible that Moriarty was back? That seemed likely and the thought and consideration of it made my blood run cold. My mind wanted to revert to the torture, but I kept my wits firmly in place. I wasn't going to get weak by these two.

But at the same time, I couldn't call Sherlock. They would know I was here, if they didn't already from the creaky floorboards.

Reaching slowly towards to desk drawer, I pulled out my old army issued pistol, the one I took from Sherlock, and carefully reloaded the weapon. My hands didn't shake. They never stuttered in the slightest. Though, to be fair, they never did. That's how I was known in the military after all. I wasn't going to let that falter now. Not when I needed it most.

I opened the knob slowly, letting the click be as faint as it could be, before slipping through. Flattening myself against the wall next to the bathroom, I peered over and caught a brief glance of what appeared to be a dress.

A woman?

My mind first went to Miss Fria Dubois, but her dress seemed less fancy than the type that woman would wear.

Keeping my pistol half-cocked, I moved to the entrance of the living room and rose the weapon quickly to the intruder.

But I stopped half way.

This wasn't an ordinary female.

The female appeared to be sick. With her shallow cheek bones and deformed body parts, I could tell that much. From the sluggish movements and harsh breaths, I could tell she didn't have long to live. Terminal illness. But she more than likely refused to be constricted to a hospital. Most did.

From here I went into doctor mode.

"Miss," I spoke slowly. She didn't jump. She definitely knew I was here. But why hadn't she requested my services.

Looking around her, my brows furrowed at the little clean patch she made for herself as well as the chemicals near her feet.

"Please, don't come near me," she whispered.

"Excuse me?" I took another step.

"I said don't come near me!" she screamed, watching me with half-crazed eyes. Dementia. She was losing it. And fast.

I kept my voice low, "I can help you. Just let me see what's wrong-"

"Help me?" she chuckled softly, "I'm sorry, dear, but I don't see how you can help me. I'm a terminal patient Dr. Watson. And I'm sure you can tell I'm going to die pretty soon."

Then let me at least make it less painful I pleaded silently.

She shook her head as if reading my mind and pulled a stool over that she must have brought with her. Picking up a few chemicals, she brought out a bucket and started pouring them in.

I didn't move, afraid she might pull something drastic.

"Haven't you noticed what I am putting in here?" she murmured softly, curiously.

Sodium Hydroxide. How it wasn't melting the bucket was a miracle unless it was a special item.

But... only the murderer used that, correct?

She couldn't be..

"I can tell by your eyes that you realized who I am, I take? Yes, I am the murderer. The artist of all those beautiful masterpieces. But, I still have one more to perform," she lifted the bucket and placed it on her bony knees, holding it in place. From there she looked at me.

"If there is a question, you should ask that now."

I didn't hesitate, "Why?"

A laugh eminated from her mouth that contradicted her health, "He was right. They do always ask those questions," she shook her head in amusement before meeting my eyes, "The one dream of an artist, one whom is aspiring with painting after painting, is to be noticed. But, I don't have nearly the time to obtain that piece of fame. I don't get my fifteen seconds."

She paused, "Thanks to a certain man, I am able to. I suppose you could say it was a gruesome version of what I wanted, but people do the craziest of things when time is at it's limit, yes?" she shrugged, "I don't want to die in my room. I don't want to be once again encased in shadows of being unknown, which is why I am here. It's another thanks to a certain individual."

A smile formed, "Your detective."

I remained silent as she spoke, noticing her voice getting softer and slightly more labored.

"Because of his troublesome self, my benefactor came to me. I was able to become noticed. So, as a final farewell, I assumed his place would be the right place for my death. It seems reasonable enough and I doubt your crime-obsessed detective would complain."

"Wait-"

"Farewell, Dr. Watson. Oh, and this is from my benefactor: I. O. U."

Before I could act, she pulled the bucket over her head and poured the contents on her scalp. She didn't scream, but I yelled for her as I came to her side, avoiding the pouring liquid. She eyed me with content even though the pain flitted to her features the entire time.

I didn't know what to do. Dammit! Why couldn't Sherlock have been here? This is his criteria for God's sake!

"Wait! What was your benefactor's name? Please tell me!" I pleaded to her failing form.

I heard whispers and neared her without coming in contact.

"Mo...ri...ar...ty..."

After that, the light fled and I knew she was dead. Gone.

Breathing stuttering breaths, I was in temporary shock. Scooting away from her body for a moment. I needed to catch my breath and it failed to come to me.

It wasn't supposed to end like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"People do the craziest things when time is at it's limit."

She was right. She made her point. But for some reason when she said that, she seemed to be talking of me and not herself. Like she knew me. My past. And what I plan for the future.

I didn't like it.

Regaining my air, I sigh into my palms and pull out my phone. Sherlock said to not phone him, but this seemed fairly important. At least it was to me.

While I contemplated my next move, my mind whispered to me.

_Well here's your ending_ My thoughts spoke solemnly _though it wasn't solved like you expected, wasn't it?_

No. Not at all.

* * *

><p><em>Alright! So John's dream is entirely symbolism. Truly. I researched night and day for the meaning of all his elements. They may be a tad off, but it is what I perceived. Everything is as follows.<em>

_The tree in bloom is like prosperity but a dead tree means similar to his hopes and dreams being completely dashed away. The fire means a lot of things, but in this dream it is destruction. Truly. A raven is similar to betrayal, misfortune, death, and the like. Body bags and corpses are like shutting yourself out and disconnecting yourself from everyone around you. The howling wind is like turmoil and stress. He was cold which is isolation I believe._

_Alternatively, the violin is harmony as well as music notes. 13, albeit a random number, was also symbolic. Yes it may seem bad luck but that's not it's true meaning. 13 is paradoxical. Beginning and end. Death and birth. The poetry is also harmony though they are actually categorized as aphorisms._

_The fact he threw them aside meant he refuses to move on. Doesn't want to._

_So! That's his dream. Symbolism._

_If your curious on what song I was having Sherlock play, I was thinking of the cover "The River Flows in You" by Lindsey Stirling. It's a favorite of mine._

_Ah yes. You get to see my lovely murderer die. About time I suppose._

_Now to write the next chapter!_

_Review, Follow, whatever you please._

_Ciao~_


	13. Chapter 13

_Short intro will be short. It's pretty simple actually. I'm on a writing spree. So, because of that, you will get chapter 14 after this is posted. Right after. Alright. Cool. _

_See? Short intro. Enjoy this. I might make the intro a tad longer in the next chapter._

_Sorry for the short chapter. Couldn't find a good way into editing this to make it longer. Officially probably one of my worst chapters._

_Sorry._

_Disclaimer: Do not own Sherlock. I wish._

* * *

><p><strong><em>Sherlock's POV<em>**

The murder wasn't any different to the others at first glance. It was clearly another crime by the same murderer. That's what Lestrade relayed to me and I could feel my attention to the murder decrease a smidgen. How boring. I doubt they would need me any longer than half an hour, but knowing the company I will have to accomplish this with, it was bound to be longer. If only everyone thought like I did in these cases. Things would be done so much quicker and crimes would be solved before anybody has the time to become distressed and completely useless.

But they all can't be like me, or so Lestrade and John like to point out when given the chance.

I sighed and Lestrade peered at me. I refused to look at him since I didn't see the point in explaining myself. He knew me long enough to know when things were not in my best interests. As unmoral as it may seem to say, I wish that this was not by the same hand and actually drawn by a different one. Perhaps the criminal that I have been pondering and chasing blindly. Perhaps his associate who harmed John. I don't know. Anybody that wasn't this certain individual.

These opinions can wait till later. I have to be at my best state to idolize the most potent markings and settings of the victims. I didn't need biased explanations blocking my view. That would be unproductive and I was definitely not that. I was better than that. Or so I strive to be.

Closing my eyes, I immediately set myself in my mind palace and prepare my facts to place in a line. The simplest were the easiest to organize. Past murders. The criminals general mind set. The tools used. All elementary matters easily expressed and understood. Next came the moderate. Setting. Relationships to victims. Reasons.

A hard difficulty? Please, none of my facts are that problematic. Unless idiots were around to see the same things, it was as easy as learning how to read and write.

At least it was to myself.

Clearly, the same murderer did this, as concluded earlier, and it was even more obvious with the note attached to the couple's corpses. Lestrade was trying to fill me in with all that he took note in that was similar to the other murders though he really didn't have to. We were both going to the crime scene after all. Perhaps he didn't like the silence I was pursuing? That's possible. He wasn't the sort to find silence a comfortable volume.

Understandable when you take in where he worked quite often.

I sometimes wondered why he bothers to hang around the idiots he does. They are not nearly as deserving as himself and yet he deals with them expertly an without fail. He doesn't bit their heads, as people say, an he doesn't mock them for what they may have done or not. He seems to treat them like children in retrospect. He faintly monitors them, scolds them if needed, and then leaves them on their merry way.

I don't understand it and quite frankly don't want to try. Ordinary people are so... weird.

Ah, I'm going on a tangent. I've been tainted by being careless.

I sighed. When I get back to the flat, I'm going to have to go through my mind palace and delete the "spam" in my corridors. This is getting out of control. I needed to be in complete condition when viewing crime scenes and thinking of preposterous ideas in the most absurd of times is certainly not alright.

Swiftly rebooting my system, I go straight to what I have been told of the crime at hand.

Another art phenomenon, something I'd rather not memorize. Yes, the criminals purpose was to create a wonderful masterpiece to the viewers, but that was not the intention of Moriarty. He wanted something to impress me with. Something to drag me out of my flat, although he didn't have to try nearly as hard. He must have been in a artistic mood of sorts. It would be his criteria from what I have come to understand.

I personally could care less for the subject. It's completely pointless, though I suppose others would beg to differ as always. Bicker about the non pertinent objectives instead of focusing on the real details. Ah, details. That was my criteria, not the design. I was interested in what it told, not what it appeared to be at first glance. That would be seeing and not observing.

"We are here," I heard Lestrade say and didn't hesitate to jump out of the vehicle.

I was immediately met with the yellow tape that told me I was where I was supposed to be. How reassuring.

Then I saw Sally and Anderson and grimaced. Yes, I was definitely where I was supposed to be.

_Why didn't I bring John?_

The inspector ran ahead of me to get inside, nodding to Sally. She rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless at her higher up. Then I saw her glare land on me and knew I wasn't going to be let off quite as easily. She would want to give her opinion. As always.

So I decided to linger a tad at the area around the scene. I didn't make a bee line to some other flat. I was just... viewing my options. I followed more leisurely and observed the ground and the few disruptions of mud and terrain. Interesting.

As I neared the tape, I saw the Sergeant and prepared a few phrases to get past her effectively. I didn't want to be here long.

But that didn't stop the Sergeant from speaking. Again, as always. I wonder if it is in her job description to make other individual's lives much difficult. If so, she was doing splendidly.

Sally greeted me immediately with her usual vicious motives. Empty threats as always. I really cannot understand why she couldn't be acceptable of my style in solving these murders. I solved them quicker than Lestrade's entire Yard. I was a quick observer. I made their lives so much easier and yet she still despised me with a passion.

I sighed. Why didn't I bring John? He's so much more agreeable to be around than these stupendous broads. At least he would be wondering what I thought or helping me past her. Without him, this was almost making me want to turn around and go a different route – and I have many – to get inside.

"Hello, freak," Donovan sneered in my direction after Lestrade was long gone.

"Hello, Sally," I replied expressionlessly, walking under the tape as the inspector did. Not saying anything, I continued to walk on. Before I got too far, Sally placed her hands in front of my form, stopping me briefly. Ah really. She wanted to talk no doubt. Probably as to why I didn't bring John.

I didn't want to surprise her by saying I was actually being considerate on my part. She would have a heart attack before believing such notions came from a "freak". God I hated that title.

Sociopath is a much better term than one so... simple.

After raising a brow, she appeared in front of me with her hands on her hips and her face in a smug smile, "So, where's your stray? Did you scare him away already or did you pick up a new one?"

Outwardly, I was giving a calm meaningless smile, but inside I was saying different. How dare she call John a stray? True, I suppose his standards and attire is nothing to brag about, but that does not give her, of all people, the right of acknowledging that. He was a better civilian than Sally herself and I really didn't appreciate the tone of voice she seemed to have on him as if he was trash that I had supposedly thrown out.

The small childish antics began to protrude and I fought them off as Sally watched my unresponsive mouth with a widening grin.

"So you did frighten him off? Oh how pathetic. I suppose you can't keep them long can you? Even the ones that seem to work best with you. Freaks have to stick with freaks I guess."

_You have the same experience as well _I thought silently.

"But that's why they call them strays, right? Because they tend to stray from the owner when given the chance?"

Before I could think of something to brush her off with, I just smirked.

"Ah, I don't think you have much room to speak when it comes to strays, Sally, considering who you like to associate yourself with. Oh, and I don't mean Lestrade."

Walking away from her stiff form, I blinked the curses I wanted to say to the back of my mind. Another time. Besides, I certainly didn't want to give her the assumption that she had gotten underneath my skin. That would be absurd. I would also be derived of my case. A big no. Not going to happen. I will not give her nor Anderson the luxury of that happening.

Sally got out of her stupor of shock rather quickly as she spoke into her radio, "Freak's here. Bringing him in."

I didn't realize how much of a mistake it was to not bring John until Anderson's face came into view. Cursing silently in my mind, I gently go over his form and pick out a few details. It didn't take me long when I could swiftly pick up the scent on his clothes and match it to the same scent on Donovan's. Oh, how lovely. I suppose the... oblivious sort should stick together.

How did she say it? _Freaks have to stick with freaks I guess?_

Although they must be more oblivious than I thought if they actually stuck together after their dispute two crime scenes ago. I would assume Anderson promised that he would leave his wife for her, yet I still see the ring on his finger. Donovan must realize this as well as she glared at him as she brought me up. Petty feuds.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again," I greeted. This was bound to be interesting. Maybe it was a good thing I didn't bring John. No. The cons still outweigh the pros. Too many to count.

I sighed heavily, measuring the only pro in this scenario.

At least John isn't here otherwise he would scold me for my behavior... or enjoy it as I am.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

Me? Contaminate a crime scene? If anybody has actually served in doing so, it would be the insufferable crew Lestrade seems to have with him. I can't obsess over how many times he has carried out blood or evidence that was a important asset to catching the convict. It's almost cringing how many times it has occurred.

I rolled my eyes at his jab and walked past him. Or attempted to at least. What was with everybody wanting to stop me from the ONLY thing I was good at. I wanted to recoil from the contact when he grabbed my cuff. My egotistical side was seething with the _how dare's _or the _off with his head_ scenarios, but I remained composed, if not a little annoyed. I really hope his lack of IQ can be washed off. I wouldn't want to contaminate anybody else with _that_ sort of stupidity.

"Are we clear?"

Looking back, I smiled. I would have let it go, but now I am irritated with him, "Quite clear. And is your wife away long?"

I saw him freeze and really wished that John would be here to treasure this moment. It was short lived though and he was immediately back on his feet with flustered features and angry notions. Donovan watched wearily and with slight annoyance. Wonderful! I hit two birds with one stone. Things couldn't be going any better.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

I scoffed, "Your deodorant told me that."

If his face could become even more obnoxious to look at, it did, "My deodorant?"

Quirking my lips a little, I replied with a little hop in my voice, "It's for men."

He looked annoyed and clearly didn't see where I was getting at with this. Oh, I sometimes wonder what it is like in his dull, little mind. Does he even have a hamster that runs it's wheels or does those wheels need to be oiled? Are they dusty or do they just move at an increasingly slow pace? Endless possibilities that I am sure if anybody were to pursue a career in his mindset, they would have something for the research given. At least, from myself they would.

But nobody sees the point. Ah, well, another time.

"Of course it's for men! _I'm _wearing it!" he exclaimed.

"So is Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson's face dropped as he stared at Donovan in shock. I took an experimental sniff as he did so.

"Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

Anderson met my innocent gaze with an accusatory one, "Now look, whatever you're trying to imply..."

"I'm not implying anything," I replied with an oblivious tone, sighting the state of Sally's knees quickly, "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Oh the looks I suffered.

Smiling smugly at their identical looks of horror, I turn and walk in. Lestrade was right at the door and watched me with raised brows. I half expected him to berate my inability to actually get along with the two, but he didn't say anything. He actually looked amused, like he suspected the same.

"Is something bothering you?" he spoke with a little humor. I was right. Of course I was right. How could I not be. Clearly, he seemed to find the exchange humorous. John would have as well. I'm certain of that.

I shook my head, "You know me better, inspector. Nothing gets under my skin." I'm a machine. I cannot feel and my skin is made of cold metal. A material that cannot be penetrated. Feelings are not allowed to escape and influences are not allowed to enter.

Although my actions seemed to defy that fact when I said all those things. Normally I would have left them be, but the earlier jab at John seemed to have... set me off apparently.

I'll have to talk to John about this when I get home. If he's awake that is.

"Yes, but I also know that you don't speak to Donovan or Anderson longer than necessary because you don't find it important." He was right, but I didn't feel like explaining myself here when I have to concentrate on a case.

I was here to tell the confused what happened in the simplest of terms. I was the one to make their lives a tad easier. It was a gate to escape my boredom so I didn't mind, but mindless blabbering was not on my list of things to listen to in the progress of such deductions.

Deduce the dead. Give the details. With hold a few. Go to the flat and figure the rest out. Catch the person in question. And then let the yard have all the credit.

That's the way it was supposed to be.

And I didn't mind at all. Credit was just a way to get the press glued to your backs like leeches. I'll pass.

I shrugged to the detective, "I didn't get enough sleep."

Lestrade rose a brow, "Since when did you ever sleep?"

_Since John came into my life, apparently. _"That's not the point," I sighed, "Let's just see the victim. That is what I am here for, correct?"

With a roll of his dull eyes, Lestrade nodded and handed me a suit.

Ugh, horrendous thing.

Pulling on the ugly coverall, I followed Lestrade down the flat.

The smell was intense going by Lestrade's expressions, but I didn't mind it at all. It wasn't the first time I saw a dead body and it won't certainly be the last. Death is an aspect you would think the Yard would get used to. The smells. The looks. The lack of heart. It's going to be the same for every victim yet here I was, younger in the terms of crime than the inspector, and not flinching in the slightest. After all, there were bound to be more murders so the scent should be something to get used to.

I found myself faintly trailing to John. I wonder if he was used to it? I wonder if he recoiled at every scent?

_Concentrate. Idiot._

Right. Machine.

"So where are the victims?" I questioned as we walked down the hallway of the flat. Everything was clean and a few things were still in boxes meaning the couple had just moved into here. Probably as a newly wed couple actually. Planning for a family judging the interior designing of one of the rooms. But all of that is for naught now. Now I had to concentrate on who did this.

Well, I suppose it was obvious who did it, but I meant the hand of the artistic sense, not the blood spill.

"They are in the reception area. I will warn you... it is a little different than the others."

"Oh please. It's still an artist who performed it. It's still going to be explicit in either gore or morality. I doubt there is any difference," I scoffed and Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Why couldn't you bring John," he replied jokingly, "I get along much better with the mate than you sometimes."

_Your not the only one_ I added.

Lestrade hesitated before opening the door. I walked in and quickly dissected the situation.

Ah, it was a tad different in the terms that it was two bodies and not one.

As well as the small, minuscule markings I could see peek out of the clothing the corpses were wearing. Abuse before the slaughter?

Right, the murder.

The entirety of the scene was to capture maybe cornering. Perhaps that is what the murderer felt like as she was doing this. Either they were going to die, get caught, or maybe even get punished after this act. They were afraid and yet accepting in a way.

The male signified death by the way his face was melted off entirely to see the skull. A robe was placed over his form with a hood to lay on top of his head. His fingers and other exposed skin was also melted to the bone. He had his left hand holding her waist and the other hand around her to keep her in place.

As for the female, this must represent the murderer's personal feelings. She still held her face though the scalp was partially burned by whatever substance they used to make her hair remain on end. Contortions were used to make her sad and forlorn. Her right arm was draped over the left arm of the male and her other hand was melted to the floor beside her.

It was a scene of cornering.

The events before the capture.

Of course, I didn't see it as that. I wasn't one to value art. I saw what most didn't see.

These two were happy couple. The female wasn't pregnant though they were probably aiming for such hopes. None were cheating and they were the couple everyone wanted to be. A boring family. Ordinary values and non significant traditions. Children. Grandchildren. Annoying crying things. Who really wants those? Messy little... beasts.

Getting closer, I pulled the sleeves back gently to see scarred tissue of cuts and bruises laid on the two victims. Ah, so they were tortured before placed in a frame.

Smiling, I noticed the note at the bottom of the two and wanted to give a triumphant laugh. I refrained by only remembering my pride.

_So, Sherlock Holmes. I suppose this is boring for you by this point. Though, I do want to say... While you are here on your own, I wonder what is happening at your flat? Poor John. Poor poor John. Without you, he will be at a loss of what to do! I hope you enjoy the little gift I left for you Sherly~_

_-J.M._

I froze temporarily. This note must have been recently placed here if the murderer knew I came here without John. But then again, how could he have? The police have been here since the early hours.

Unless, he sent somebody to do it for him.

Cursing under my breath, I pulled a uncharacteristic Sherlock thing.

I left the crime scene before giving a single deduction.

Every step was heavy, but the mere thought of John possibly being caught _again _by that criminal was an objective I'd rather not have on my conscience. I didn't want to see John back in the hospital. Who would get me milk at the flat? Who would tell me to actually eat, even if I dismiss it?

I began to walk out of the crime scene. It killed me, but I didn't want to be held responsible if John got hurt. In order to not be held such, I needed to get there before anything went wrong.

I didn't understand this. Since when did I actually care about this doctor? When did my rare smirks and even more treasured smiles only appear around him? I am a machine. I can't care for such individuals other than myself. I am selfish and can't hold no emotion. Sincerity? Contempt? Hatred? A machine does not hold these. That's why it is a machine.

Because I am neutral. I do not pick sides, unless it is against my moral judgment. My cool metal exterior protects me from getting close. My deductions and sharp remarks are the bolts to hold those sheets in place. The jerky movements are my reactions and subtlety to human emotion.

And yet, despite all these faults, my mind still whirled on and on inside these metal caskets of mine. I thought ahead of those next to me. I actually thought. I knew the murderer. I could be in his steps. Deducing the past, figuring the future. That was me.

Not a human. Never a human.

I hardly noticed the inspector coming up.

Lestrade was next to me, "Hey Sherlock. Where are you going? We still haven't heard what you have to say on the murder!"

"I.. have something to attend," I spoke slowly before hopping into a cab and ordering the driver to 221B.

_Poor John. Poor poor John. Without you, he will be at a loss of what to do!_

_**John POV**_

My first instinct was to feel for a pulse in the corpse lying across from me, but notion would prove no point. There was no way she could be alive. None at all. She did, after all, pour a bucket of sodium hydroxide onto her skin. Skin melted off her as if it was icing on a cake. I saw the light fly from her eyes like a dying flame and yet I still couldn't believe it.

To top it off, this poor girl was driven by a man crazier than any dementia she showed. She was taken advantage of because of her condition.

And that wasn't okay in my book. Definitely not alright.

Moriarty. The name sparked two familiar beings in me. Fear and anger. The act of being terrified and the emotion of being furious. I feared this man for what he did to me gleefully. The cuts and bruises. The visible and invisible scars. The doubts in my mind. I feared him for all of these because I knew they were the beginning of what he could do.

With his tactics, he could effectively break me. He could blank out my memories, but not from technology. No, he could do it be the torture he is capable of. Because of this, I constantly wondered what I would be like if I got captured again and wasn't rescued in time. Would I even be John Watson anymore? Would I be _me_? Would I forget my memories? That's what I feared. Losing me.

But, that fear was swiftly rivaled with the fury of all the deaths he was causing in his little fun. He manipulated the deficient minds of others. His hands indirectly murdered every single soul in this case. Discreet and yet in plain sight. He was the cause of all of this. This woman murdering all those people. It was him. His fault. He needed to pay. Him and every bloody convict out there!

The young woman just got caught in a web...

No I didn't blame her. I didn't place the blame of all those murders and deaths on her palette because it wasn't her who delivered the final blow. It was her benefactor. It was Moriarty. She had a conscience. She used to be moral. She was a good person. But it changed. It did because of what he did to her. Changed her mind. Corrupted her pros and exploited the cons.

Yet we held no way to find him. Now that I know he seems to hold interest in Sherlock, I know we will hear of him again, but who knows how or when.

I just wanted to get rid of him.

I pulled out my cellular and was about to phone Sherlock when a text alerted me of its presence. It was an unknown number. Normally, I would have brushed it off as some sort of spam but the subject caught me.

_"To John Watson."_

Cursing under my breath and peering at the body in front of me, I click the message and read it.

_"I suppose you are wondering who I am, but it's not important. What is, however, is the scene you just witnessed. Do not phone Sherlock Holmes, doctor Watson. If you know what's best for you, I advise you await until my men and I arrive. I will repeat myself if you didn't understand me the first time, do not phone Sherlock Holmes. That is all. -M.H."_

M.H.? Who the bloody hell was M.H.?

Fighting the rebellious side of me that screamed to not listen to the text, I decided to play the risk and await the man who texted me.

I didn't have to wait long to here several stomps of feet coming up the stairs. To top it off, they didn't knock or hold any of the common decency I thought men of their stature would be. They just barged in like they owned the place and got to work cleaning the body and getting rid of the scene ever happening. They were covering the scene up.

"Hello again Doctor Watson."

I turned from the crew to face a man I recognized all to well as that goody two shoes snob of a man with that all knowing smirk (and ate too much of cake in my opinion) – also known as the hospital prat that clearly wasn't impressed by my state of mind at the time. So in other words, I despised the man instantly. His suit was the exact same as then as well as the expression on his face. God I wish I could knock that look off but that would probably get me in more trouble than I need considering his people.

"Hello," I replied wearily.

Why was he here anyways? And why the hell could I not tell Sherlock of this? It made no bloody sense! If Sherlock was here, he could scare off this git with his deductions or even showing him one of his experiments.

"I suppose you are wondering why I wouldn't let you tell this to your.. detective?" he smiled ruefully.

"Yes, actually. Please do enlighten me as to why I couldn't tell him," I snapped back. I ignored the few pointed glares I got from his men. Sod off. All of you.

"Ah, it's nothing personal, Doctor, none at all. Just some... leverage I suppose you could say," he mused.

"Leverage for what?" I replied.

He was about to respond when the door opened again. This time, a relieved smile crossed my face.

Sherlock.

I didn't know why I was so relieved from him returning, but for some reason, I felt like I was a lot safer with him around. Especially around this individual.

The detective didn't seem to share the same emotion.

Though, at the sight of the man in front of me, I could see the annoyance enter his face immediately. Moving to stand almost in front of me, I could barely make out the venomous glare he was sending to the powerful man.

"Sherlock-"

"John, how long has he been here?"

I paused, "Perhaps 5 minutes, but he did no harm. I met him once-"

"You spoke to him without consulting me?" he seethed, but it wasn't to me. This time his annoyance was directed to the man who appeared as done with this scenario as the detective himself.

"I hardly need your permission," he spoke nonchalantly, "I just wanted to see if he was useful in any way."

"Useful?" I repeated incredulously.

"Hush now Doctor Watson, the intellectual ones are speaking," he chided me before facing Sherlock again.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock threw out, "And I mean besides tampering with _my _case."

"As ever, I am concerned about you."

"Yes, I can see where your concern has led me," he snarled.

"Stop acting like such a child, Sherlock. Has it ever occurred to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock exclaimed, clearly trying to get rid of the man quickly.

Peeking around Sherlock, I saw the powerful man's shoulders fall In a sigh. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he responded tiredly, "We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer …and you know how it always upsets Mummy."

I frowned, confused. Did I hear that correctly or was my mind playing tricks on me.

"_I _upset her? Me?"

The glowering battle became heated at the mere mentioning of this figure, "It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft."

Standing abruptly, I placed a hand between the two children and broke in, "Wait a second. Just wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

Sherlock sighed a little, "Mother – our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." He looked like he hated giving the man that title. I couldn't really blame him.

But... that did make a whole lot of sense now that I think of it. They do hold that resemblance of being able to tell everything about you. And the faint appearance. I was surprised how I couldn't see it earlier. Maybe I was getting duller.

Deciding to question Sherlock later on the subject, I shake my head.

Sherlock rose a brow, "You accepted that fairly quickly, John. I'm impressed."

I smiled, "Not at all. I just know this isn't the time to be wanting explanations when your brother's men seem to be cleaning the finale on your case."

That seemed to bring everything into perspective as he peered at the men.

"Don't you dare touch that body with your unsanitary and ungloved hands," he seethed, "You have already ruined it by trying to remove it from my flooring. Do you have _any _idea how many pieces of evidence you have effectively _destroyed_?"

He set his glare on Mycroft, "And you. Can you possibly think of anything else to do than patronize me?"

"I would if you would take some of the propositions I have mentioned," he responded annoyed.

"As if you need any help. The country has you. Or are you taking back the point you made in my childhood how you are the smarter one."

"I am the smart one," he deadpanned.

"Then you don't need me!" Sherlock exclaimed as he shooed away the men messing with the female.

"Children! Please calm down," I interrupted, already getting a headache from the exchange, "You two are definitely related. God, I already can't deal with one of you. I don't need another."

"John!" Sherlock complained.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft watched me wearily.

"Drama queens," I muttered before effectively getting rid of the problem here.

I glared at Mycroft, "You. Out. Now. Clearly you presence has once again not helped in anything except making things worse. I really don't want you scrutinizing my mind set and past life, and quite frankly, I don't necessarily like you. Sherlock doesn't seem to either. So I would appreciate it if you would get out of our flat at this moment so we can finish a case he took on and you are not at all responsible for."

Mycroft blinked at me and nodded before ordering his men out and leaving as unceremoniously as he arrived.

Sherlock paused as he looked at me as well, "I... thank you."

I sighed, tired, "For what?"

He spoke slowly as if unsure on what to say, "Nobody has ever really stood up for me against my brother and the fact you decidedly put him in his place... thank you."

I smiled. He seemed awkward trying to thank somebody and decided not to point out he didn't have to respond so unsure. That I understood the basics of what he was meaning to express.

"No problem, mate. He didn't seem to be helping and with you and he bickering, I was about ready to punch him if he didn't leave. Putting him in his place was the only verbal way I had left."

I shrugged, "So onto the murder..."

"Ah yes," Sherlock didn't hesitate, "Did she do anything to you?"

"Do anything...?" I shook my head, "No... not at all. In fact, I spoke with her before she did it herself..."

"What did she say?" he asked as her checked her body.

"Besides saying she was dying of a terminal illness, she mentioned little else. She... thanked you. And her benefactor of course. She said because of you, she was given her few moments of fame. That's why she came here... not to hurt me. Not to manipulate me. But for me to listen to her."

A pause.

"And who was her benefactor?"

I rolled my eyes, "You should know."

"Moriarty."

I nodded, "Who else?"

A minute later, Sherlock moved away form the corpse and towards myself. I was a little surprised by the sudden change in direction and assumed he probably wanted to assess my intake on this.

What he said instead baffled me.

"I... need advice," he spoke slowly.

Now that was definitely a surprise. Advice? From me? For Sherlock Holmes? It must be the end of the world as we speak. Wait. No. No flames. No ice. No super typhoon or some meteor from the sky. Everything was intact. Shockingly.

I still expected something.

All I replied was: "For what?"

Another pause, "I have been in conflict with these emotions I have been feeling and unable to characterize. I'm... not good with human emotion."

_He speaks it like he isn't one_ I muse.

"I can tell. Well, what is confusing you? Perhaps I can help."

He looked away for a moment and back at the body as he replied, like he couldn't look me in the eye, "It's about this individual I have met some time ago. I seem to be relieved when they are well and worried – is that the right word? – when they are upset or unwell. I accept praise from this individual and yet no other. For some reason, this person is also making me a little less unhappy than I was before. I... even tend to place themselves before me and my cases. I don't know what this all means but I assumed since you are more... human than I am, that you would be able to assist me."

Meanwhile, throughout the entire description, I wanted to laugh. I didn't of course because this clearly was conflicting him, but I was tempted.

"It sounds like you care for someone Sherlock. Is that so abnormal for you?" I joked and then realized it probably was, "It's not a bad thing. In fact, it proves that you actually are finding people who you can live with and not drive away so to speak." God, I didn't know how to say this without saying he was a lonely git before. I hoped he didn't see the negatives in my statement.

He seemed to be calculating something before giving a sigh, "Ah, I suppose that must be it. Thank you."

After that he just walked away like it never happened, observing the body again. I let it drop, but at the same time I wondered who this individual was.

Another topic for another time I promised. The corpse in front of me had to be attended to before I could consider what he meant.

I walked up beside the detective, "So, what do we do about her? We can't just... clean her up and dispose of her. She deserves a proper burial, no matter what she did."

Ignoring the brow he rose at me, I phoned Lestrade and told him of what happened. Sherlock didn't object so I guess I did the right thing.

The detective inspector didn't sound frustrated at all. One glance at Sherlock said that he probably did something and the inspector suspected as much. I'll have to have a talk with Sherlock later on priorities. His timing was bloody awful.

Within half an hour, the Yard came and took away the body. In another half an hour, I had cleaned up most of the mess on the floor from the encounter.

I was about to retire to my room when Sherlock called out, "John?"

"Yes?" I turned.

"Don't dwell on the past when you sleep. It tends to bring up unpleasant dreams. Think of something... euphoric."

I froze. So he had heard my nightmares.

Giving a slightly shaky smile, I thanked him and walked to my room. Shutting the door, I wiped away the worry with an effective "He doesn't know. He would have said something."

I went to the laptop and opened the blog. The intro still mocked me, but now I could finish it.

Extending my fingers, I prepared for what was going to be a long night.

I won't be getting much sleep, but for once it won't be because of nightmares.

God... I hope this doesn't become an addiction.

* * *

><p><em>Look at that. Chapter stuff. Sherlock clearly has manifested feelings for John, but both he and John are in the wrong as to what they are.<em>

_Don't worry, it's developing._

_John is going to be a stick in the mud, I fear. Keep in mind he will not move forward until his past has made amends. He relies on his past and the future is only a far away candle in a room of darkness. He still can't reach it yet._

_But he will._

_So, review, fav, follow, read. The like._

_Ciao~_


	14. Chapter 14

_Look here! Another chapter! Such a rare sight this is!_

_To the point, I only have a month left before school starts up again. Yes, that is a lot of time to write, but I am lazy. I will not hide it. To top it off, I have not been sleeping to write as much as I possibly can. I'm hoping to upload quite a bit before school begins in case I have to go on yet another hiatus. I really hope it doesn't happen._

_Okay. So! Another murder here. This chapter is heavily episode related. Like, I will say there are plenty of references to the episodes and not mere quotes. Like, almost entire events. It kills me, but it fit for the moment._

_Summary... Sherlock is being a prat, John being confused, Moriarty having all the wins._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock._

* * *

><p>Muse Chapter 14<p>

**_John POV_**

After the initial case of the Melted Artist, the future cases were smaller and easier to solve. Little missions that maybe took half a day or half a minute at most. Not nearly as long as my initiation murder and it was taking it's toll. Sherlock was not pleased with this change in pace at all, grumbling of how the world could not even spare him by delivering a nice murder on a gold platter. I would always nod and just remain quiet, knowing it was suicide to try and placate that esteem of his.

It still bothered me, however, the distant look he got when he thought I wasn't looking. How he would always look out the window like he expected some miracle to occur. Other semblance to the murders before. Another strike to counter what we completed months earlier. It was all in his head, but he was bloody awful at hiding it. It was almost like viewing an open book. He never said it, but I could tell he wanted Moriarty to strike again so he could constantly be on his toes. He wished for that thrill. It was in his bones. He might as well admit he gets off of it. I wouldn't be surprised (and would honestly have no room to judge).

Nonetheless, for a few weeks now, we only had our earful of the little ones. Missing family members. Items gone awry. Money being gambled. Husbands cheating. It was all of the same line. Simplicity. Sherlock hated it and spoke the word with so much distaste that it made the term almost illegal to utter in his presence.

He wanted a murder. He wanted a tangent in this long archive of asinine confessions. In his view, he would mutter how this flat was becoming a church and his attention was the confession stand for all their supposed sins and unspoken desires. No matter how much he may despise the first voice he heard, he would always hear one that was worse than the last. He was the preacher on the other end, trying to discern what exactly they wanted from him when the answer to their own misfortunes is in plain sight.

"Oh Sherlock, is my husband cheating on me?" _Why are you so intent when it's clear you are no doubt cheating on him judging by your ring and make up?_

"Oh Sherlock, please find the person who took my brooch! It is of family value!" _Then why did you wear it in such a flirtatious attitude? Besides, it is clearly at the bottom of your pretentious bag. Perhaps had you looked instead of wasting your money elsewhere, we wouldn't be having the conversation of your pitiful traits?_

"Oh Sherlock, please discover who cheated me out of my money!" _Are you even listening to what you are proposing? Obviously, you were the one who gambled it in the first place. Look at your wallet and fingers. Your a gambler and you lost. Heavily no doubt. _

He quickly lost interest in cases and began to categorize them of all things. If they were not greater than a 7, he wouldn't take it and would brush them aside at the door. Of course, this little rule of his constantly annoys him and even if I offer to change it, he would always complain of the boredom in the world. It was almost a habit of his to say he would rather wait for a worthwhile case than to try and solve these minor ones with no value.

So, who had to deal with him when he started to act like this? Yours truly. I would either scold him for his behavior or completely give up and go to the pub with some mates. It was atrocious. Sherlock and his blubbering of that word of his. Boredom. Boring. Bored. God, he complains of my lacking in vocabulary, but they way he uses that word must be a sin somewhere. He really needed to change that, but who was I, and ordinary military reject, to correct a genius as he?

But then again it was thanks to me he even got any cases at all. The missing family. The murders for eligibility. The small accidents for pensions. Any case really. I lost count of how many I have heard and each tale, even if it was the same in general, always held that one little difference ("_Looks like the butler didn't do it this time", "Hm... it wasn't the kitchen knife in the study, Odd", "Did they really fight over a replica vase?") _It was pitiful really.

And all of these started to come because of my blog. After the case, I posted the events in its entirety out of something to do, but not long after I got some comments. Those few changed to well over 20 remarks of the case. I was surprised to say the least. A few from my sister and Lestrade, but mostly from people who were curious on Sherlock. Who he was. What he could do. If he really was as good as I said he was. They all wanted something and I couldn't tell them and give him justice. If they wanted to know if he was the real deal, they had to hand a case to him. And a good one.

God, I forgot to mention that before he even thought of my blog as beneficial, I remember him despising what I said. He didn't like it. At all. I didn't understand him. He said I "over-romanticized" his objectives. I didn't see how. I still remember the argument we held because he wasn't pleased with what I said. It was childish, for the both of us, and we still continued it like the lonesome adults we were.

We held no shame it seems.

_Walking to the fridge to get something to eat, I freeze when I open it's contents. Closing the door, I blink at no where in particular before opening it again to make sure I wasn't delusional._

_No, it was still there... but why?_

"_Is... that a head?"_

_Sherlock replied monotonously, "Just tea for me, thanks."_

_I didn't know whether to stare at it or throw it at the detective for his nonchalance, "No, there's a head in the fridge." A head. A **dead**__head. It isn't bleeding over anything, but I don't think I want to touch anything in the fridge now. God knows what else is an experiment in here. I'd rather get take out again. _

_For the third time this week._

"_Yes," he peered at me. Sherlock didn't seem in the bit phased. Cool as a cucumber. Damn him._

_I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, "A bloody head."_

_He gave me an incredulous look, "Well, where else was I suppose to put it? You don't mind do you? Got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death."_

_Of course, I thought, it was just the thing you would do. It was just so... Sherlock._

_Looks like I'm going to have to scrub the fridge, counters, and sink clean of all these... whatever it could be. Again. For a experimentalist, he was bloody awful at keeping anything he used clean. I felt like a maid in his presence, scrubbing the counters or attempting mercilessly to get stains of some body fluid out of the sofa and arm chairs. _

_I'm going to have to have a talk with him about this. _

_I almost laughed. Like he would listen. He's in his own little world, that one is._

_Sighing I shut the door and decided to head back to the living room, my appetite driven from me. How could I stomach something when all I could picture was a gaping mouth staring at me. It was as if it was saying, "Where is my plate? I'm hungry as well!" Maybe later. After Sherlock takes that head out. I don't care if it is an experiment. I could care less. Just... no. Not okay._

_Bad Sherlock. Very bad._

_When I turned the corner I saw Sherlock peering at my laptop. I could vaguely see the reflection of my blog and began to get a tad curious. What did he think? Was he happy? Was he impressed? Had I done a good job? I wanted very much to hear his input on my writing. Everyone else seemed to like it, but I'm not so sure about him._

_Hard to please._

_Leaning against my arm chair, I crossed my arms and eyed him. He didn't so much as look at me._

"_So what do you think of my blogs?" I asked curiously as he read through it._

"_I see you have written up the artist case." He evaded the question. With him, I'm not sure if that was a good thing or not._

_I switched from one foot to the other, "Uh, yes."_

"_The Melted Artist?" I detected the skepticism in his voice. It was daunting._

_I nod, "Well you know. Melted victims perceived as art. Molded forms. Special interest in placement for the masterpieces and then the murderer committing the same crime upon herself. It seemed the right title." I hope, I added silently to myself._

_He kept reading it before sighing._

"_Uh, do you like it?"_

_Shutting the lid, he handed it back to me without another word._

"_What?" I asked, already sensing he was going to rant about God knows what._

"_No."_

_I was confused, "Why not? I thought you would be flattered? At least somewhat impressed in the least. People can now recognize you. Maybe you will get more cases! I know how you get bored easily Sherlock and maybe it will-"_

_He rolled his eyes, "Please. They may know my name now, but not for the reasons you suspect. "Sherlock sees through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about somethings-"_

_Oh spare me, I sighed, "Now hang on a minute. I didn't mean that in a-"_

_Raising his brow as if saying "Oh? You meant spectacularly ignorant In a good way?", he rolled his eyes, "That's besides the point. Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister or who's sleeping with who," he shook his head and made gestures as he said this, "It doesn't matter and is honestly not useful in any cases I could think of pursuing."_

_I looked at him, "Whether the Earth goes around the sun."_

_As expected, it struck a nerve. Ironically, we have been going around this subject so much it's almost as if we are the planets going around the sun. Of course if I were to mention this to Sherlock, he would have a field day with that comparison._

_He sighed exasperatedly, "Oh god, not that again! It's not important. How many times must I tell you this, John?"_

"_Not important? It's primary stuff! How can you-" _

"_Simple. I deleted it."_

"_Delete- what?"_

_Shaking my head, I sighed and decided to stop trying to figure out what he meant, "But it's the solar system!" It is important to know! Why does he have to be such a bloody prat? Really. Not knowing these extraterrestrial bodies are going to end up stumping him in the end when a case does come up on his doorstep that requires such knowledge. Then who will he turn to?_

_The answer came quickly and without hesitation. Me. Of course. _

_Silently, I was glad I didn't ask this question out loud. He was already letting off steam of my earlier reply. I'm sure if I were to record it and tweak the frequencies, he would sound like that character I saw in a cartoon once when on caffeine._

"_Oh! How? What does that matter? So we go 'round the sun. If we went 'round the moon or round and round the garden like a teddy bear it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that my brain rots. Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world."_

_When he was done ranting, I nodded to myself._

_Yup, I need to go to the supermarket. And maybe another store._

_Tranquilizer darts wouldn't be such a bad thing to have after all if Sherlock doesn't find out about them._

"_Where are you going?"_

_I didn't realize I was walking out the door until his voice brought me back. He probably wasn't done talking. Well, quite frankly I was so he could go sod off. I need to air off my steam before I end up creating the next case featuring his murder._

"_It's common courtesy to reply to those who are speaking to you," Sherlock mocked as he narrowed his eyes at me._

_Glaring at the detective, I decided to assume he was testy over not having any real cases and walked out of the flat to get the milk (and maybe other), considering the last batch was completely ruined by his experiments._

After that event, I returned to find him reading the blog again. I still wasn't in the mood to speak with him. Instead, I walked to the kitchen and put away the groceries. I, regrettably, didn't buy any tranquilizer darts, but I was hoping that I didn't need them. No stirring was heard from the sofa. Making tea, I relished the silence and after my cuppa was made, I walked to my arm chair and pulled out a book Sherlock hadn't yet ruined.

The person in speaking remained quiet and after a moment of reading and sipping some tea, I heard what sounded like a muffled apology. Or a half-hearted attempt at such. I didn't bother to squeeze it out of him. It was clear he was having enough of an issue muttering it.

Ah, right. He didn't like to be proved wrong. It was practically against his genes.

For some reason, I was fine with what apology I heard anyways.

He didn't seem to understand my views in posting these blogs at all so I explained that these were a way to get his name out. Maybe, just maybe, he can get bigger and more interesting cases. Maybe he won't be as bored anymore. This perked his interest, though he was still sulking over not having one to begin with.

"_I'm a detective," he huffed, "A consulting detective and yet I have no clients to consult and no cases to detect. I'm useless. Is this was purgatory is because I realize now that I am going to hate every second of it if I end up there. I need a case, John. Please get me a case!"_

"_Drama queen," I thought to myself as I rolled my eyes and continued to sip my tea lovingly._

But that didn't last long. His purgatory was short lived. Soon enough, cases came constantly. Sherlock wasn't bored, but the easy ones would always be finished in five minutes. He abhorred those the most.

And yet, no case really stuck out to the next. No major case struck as baffling to the detective nor I. It was... boring as much as I would love to choose a different word. No cases were worth writing about and for some reason my mind ached for typing his outlandish themes and triggering methods. Not just for something to do, but because I really, truly, wanted people to see Sherlock as the genius he was.

Well, that didn't take much convincing on my part though plenty left either empty handed or just empty in a retort against his deductions.

So many came. They were all boring to the detective, but he took them to keep his mind from getting too empty and free.. if it was over his category limit. Sometimes, just to quit his blaring, I would lie of the category standards he had set just to get him a case. True, he would despise me for the rest of the week for the lie, but he would still do it, regardless of simplicity. Besides, nobody would want to see him on a bad day... or a bad hour for that matter.

I've caught countless looks of sympathy from Lestrade and a few from Mrs. Hudson whenever I would come out of the flat with dark shadows under my eyes and an grouchy attitude to boot. They always knew that Sherlock was the reason, but also knew nothing could change that stubborn man. Again, it was in his genes. Or, perhaps his family. I don't really care. If he didn't have a distraction, his antics became unbearable real quick. Every time he didn't have a case from some poor soul, he would drone on till the early hours of the morning of his boredom and the insufficiency of others.

After a while of this, I decided to create spare cases of my own to keep him occupied though those didn't last long either. Then again, it was a last resort sort of attempt to be honest.

Apparently I'm not as creative to think of cases as I am with sheet music. For a while, he played along because it was a diversion. He caught on and told me that while they were all interesting in one aspect or another, they were all of the same topic and he could quickly narrow down who they were from. He also advised to use actual cases as references if I were to pursue this again. It was a rather awkward conversation to say the least. Mostly since after that event, he still deduced the "missing member" in one of my illusive cases like our conversation never happened.

When we weren't doing that, we would try at games. Cluedo was a mistake. Sherlock didn't get the game at all, always exclaiming that the victim had done it because it was the only explanation that made any sense. Even if I would show him the rules and say that it was no way possible with these rules I held, he would just exclaim that the rules were wrong. Not him. Oh, never him. This dragged on to other games. We tried card games but he held no patience. Art was another no go unless music related. Only cases caught his attention. He held a certain thrill for it. A drive, a shot of adrenaline. It was his life work and he couldn't think of anything else to perform in the absence of it.

But as long as people came to give him cases, no matter how insignificant, he was fine.

For a few weeks, we were content with it. Well, I was. Sherlock was definitely not, but he wasn't completely insufferable yet. After a while of living with him, I concluded he was practically a spoiled child. Give a child a cookie whenever they ask for it and they think it's okay to constantly want one. That was how Sherlock was. He was a child that thought since cases were always around, he could have one at leisure.

Utter rubbish but good luck proving that to him.

Even in this peace, we still held that little knowledge that Moriarty wasn't done. It was impossible for him to leave a canvas half done. With the notes he left and the scars he pursued, he couldn't be. He had lit a fuse and now he was going to be the one to speed up the spark until the bomb exploded. His personality showed that he wasn't like the normal murderer. He was special in a really bad way, but Sherlock still looked forward to it because it was something different.

It wasn't a family matter. It wasn't a bank robbery. It wasn't those simple little cases. It was different. Abnormal. A tangent. The one he kept looking forward to and that sparked interest in him with every murder or crime we attended. Moriarty was distinctive in his methods and dangerous in his mindset. He wasn't a hit and run. He would watch the explosion with glee and wonder. That was the man he was.

An equal opponent to the shifting detective next to me.

We expected every case Lestrade may need help with to be his work, but it always wasn't. A triple homicide? No. A fake suicide? None. It was just empty. After countless cases and no shows of the criminal, we became more paranoid of _when_ he was actually going to strike. Today? Tomorrow? A full year from now?

Sherlock, of the two of us, was the most anxious.

This led to speculation as to whether he was playing with us. At least, this was what I thought. He was playing the traditional game of cat and mouse and we were scurrying in an open field. Sherlock was the mouse with cat ears, certain that he held the upper hand when it was clear that at this moment, he was at the bottom with myself. Sherlock and I would constantly bicker on this topic. Like now.

"Sherlock. Come away from the window," I sighed, annoyed, "Moriarty isn't going to hold up a bloody sign saying 'Murder this way! Come all and see!"

"It would be easier than waiting," Sherlock muttered as he sat down. He was sulking. Again. For the eleventh time today. If this flat was actually clean, sending him to a bloody corner wouldn't be such a bad thing.

"Maybe if you found something to do besides brooding all day, you wouldn't have this problem. I know you want to catch him, I do to, but you can't see the bloody future, mate. It's not possible, even for a genius as yourself," I sighed, "You don't know when Moriarty may strike again. He may strike in an hour or he may strike months from now. He doesn't have a schedule that you can debunk Sherlock."

If anybody would have that power, It would be you, but it's highly improbable that you could perform such. This isn't the age of flying cars and telepathic minds. As much as you may wish for such, to be among the smarter minds and all, you have effectively met your match. You are playing a dangerous game with the criminal you have long searched for in this boring, monochrome world of yours.

But I didn't say this.

Sherlock glared at me, "What do you want me to do? No new cases are here-"

"You sent most of them away," I reminded.

"You took away my toy-"

"pistol," I corrected.

"- and you seem to destroy every experiment I ever create! What can I do?" I opened my mouth but he beat me to the punch, "And so help me... if you say sleep, I'll personally make sure those precious sweets you treasure in the fridge will not be as edible when you return."

Eying the book cases and the few knick knacks around the flat, I couldn't find anything for him to do. He had a violin, but he doesn't like practicing in front of others for some reason. Performing is different, but practicing is a no-go. I can't tell him to read, because he doesn't hold the patience. Cooking is atrocious. Drawing is not his best capabilities.

And I'll be damned if I hand over my pistol to him again. As is, I already had to go purchase more rounds for the weapon.

My eyebrow twitched at the man and I sighed, "Fine. Then no, I have no idea what to tell you besides the fact that you are being an insufferable prat-

"As you say often," Sherlock drones on, laying on the couch.

"- and perhaps you should get out more – and not just for cases. Crying 'Woe is me' while huddled on your couch isn't going to make Moriarty appear any faster, you know."

Sherlock turned away from me on the couch and mimicked my tone. A child. A big, baby. Rolling my eyes, I pulled the laptop on my lap just in time to see a new message pop up on my blog.

Please be some sort of miracle. I pray to thee.

_I have a case I want to request. When would be a good time to arrive? – Anonymous_

Finally.

Wait.

I furrowed my brow before replying _You can arrive now if you wish. We are completely open. Just knock. – J.W._

The reply came quickly from the anon _Thank you. I'll be there soon._

I didn't tell Sherlock of the mysterious individual that requested his presence. The poor bloke wouldn't last. The client, not Sherlock, though the same could be said for him I suppose. He would get antsy and utterly hyper for the arrival. As it is, I didn't even know who I was going to meet so he could pounce on anybody. I'd rather wait and surprise him. It may sour his mood a little bit, but it's a case.

A practical life saver.

But as the hours drove on, nobody showed. I will say that Sherlock and I have had a few clients stand us up, but normally it's because some matters came up or even the case was solved before they reached over door when they suddenly would come to their senses. Either way, they would contact me to let me know, but nothing. It was empty. I heard no reply from the Anon and no steps came up those stairs.

What we did hear, however, was the local law enforcement. Not for us, thank God, but for some other misfortune.

We kept hearing police sirens down the street off and on. In fact, those same sirens had been appearing all week. I was curious on the matter but Sherlock would merely smirk. He knew something. That was probably why he wasn't as irritating as usual today. He knew something was going to happen with that case radar of his that I can't see. It must have been blinking a red blip because he was on high alert for the door to open. He seemed confident that after the police were at their wits end – which he pointed out would be soon – then they would come to him. Arrogant so-and-so.

I was beginning to suspect that the individual may never appear when steps were heard. I was about to mention the person to Sherlock when the door opened to reveal Lestrade – not the person I was expecting.

"Greg?" I spoke surprised.

"Hey, John," he greeted before looking at Sherlock, "We need you. Can we count you in?"

"I suppose it would be for those murders that have been occurring all week?" Sherlock mused as he tilted his head back on the sofa's arm to peer at the inspector.

Anybody else would be flustered by the mocking tone in Sherlock's voice, but Lestrade merely grinned, "I knew you would be prepared."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "As if I wouldn't be ready for such a thrill. We will be following you shortly. I'll be there."

A sigh escaped the inspector's lips and I for once took notice of the dark shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep, "Thank you."

After the door closed, Sherlock watched out the window for the inspector. I was about to question his motives when he suddenly jumped, "Yes! A multiple homicide. Ah, it's Christmas!"

I chuckled and shook my head, pulling on my shoes as he pulled on his coat and scarf.

We were out within the hour.

As we rode in the cab, I decided to ask Sherlock of the case.

"So, this case."

"Yes?" he replied.

"What of it?" I slowly eased out. When he was this distracted, short questions were best. If they were really long ones, he would ignore it and it would be all for naught. Like most things when it comes to him. Chores. Organizing. The like.

The look he gave me made me regret not looking at the news for the past week. Was there something I was missing?

"You.." he paused and shook his head, "Right, you never really check the paper's much unless you have nothing to do. I suppose I'm at fault for that. Here."

He handed me his cellular and I read the article being shown brightly on it's surface.

_Fourth Victim And Still No Suspects?_

_By - -_

_Earlier this week, the police began to uncover a series of victims. As of today, another victim has been found and the police suspect it's from the same killer as the last few. Each victim appears to have committed suicide by shooting their skull. To top off the act, a note is always attached with a secret of the individual. The initials are clearly 'S.F.'_

_Who is this S.F.? Is he the new homicidal criminal after Anna Green? Could this be the start of a murder epidemic?_

_The police have released no new information since the 3rd victim yet sources have said that a 4th has been uncovered as recently as today. The police have no suspects. No people to question. Could they be stumped from this secret-killing murderer? Or are they just buying time to drag out the criminal? Whether it is one or the other, more bodies are being found each day._

_According to detective inspector Lestrade, the murderer is an online killer. An individual close to all the victims and active in the virtual media. He hasn't any leads on who the individual could be, but the police are constantly searching for the killer in speaking. _

_It is ordered to-_

Sherlock pulled the phone after that part, "There's no reason for you to read on. It's all media rubbish to frighten the reader or turn values. Regardless, you read the murders no doubt. Do you understand?"

I nod, thinking of the murderer. A secret murderer? It was... different but for some reason all I could think of when I read the article was that this would be the exact murder Moriarty would illustrate.

He was finally making his move after so long.

_**Sherlock POV**_

The scene wasn't all that interesting to view. It was the same as the article said, although I could gladly do without their dramatizations.

Shot in the head. Quick and simple like the rest. The parents of the teen are distraught of course, but they don't realize he didn't commit suicide. They are set on that view since it's for some reason easier to believe. Taking the easy way out of course, but it isn't that plain. This was not suicide. I know suicides and have deduced them. This what not the sort. It was murder. I have analyzed every detail and it's obvious.

If only they would listen.

But they never do. Especially to a "sinner who can't keep his mouth shut or be polite in a room of the almighty."

God I hate religious fanatics.

John remained next to the corpse to look for an other intrusions as I observed the room.

I, on the other hand, observed other things. For one, half the clothes in his wardrobe most certainly didn't fit this young man. Another, he seemed to be prone to wearing neon green and black clothing. More than likely for appearances. As is, he seems to be wearing the color coordination at the moment.

Raising my brow, I smirked in curiosity when I noticed that not one, but two things were missing. Two very important objects.

But that will be for later. Now, I have to aid the Yard in the prognosis. Easy.

Knowing Lestrade and John, they will want some reason as to why this young man didn't kill himself. Seeings as I am the only one who actually observes everything, I will have to be the one to do that.

As transparent as glass.

Every object that was to be used was placed on his left, yet the gun in his hand was on his right side. Why would he use his less dominant hand to shoot himself and not the more promising one? Elementary. He didn't kill himself. Not to mention whoever had was in a hurry and lazily placed the gun in his grip so atrociously there was no way he could have shot himself.

Besides, he would have dropped the gun after doing so. Not left holding it. No muscles and his grip doesn't seem firm enough to even consider otherwise.

But who was this killer? No doubt the S.F. The press was going rabid about, but is this individual related to Moriarty? It would seem his style. I'll have to keep tabs on this case.

John would say it was unmoral how much I was liking this case the more I thought of it. I might get to meet the elusive Moriarty at long last. I'll meet my match. As is, I don't see why he took so long to begin with.

"Sherlock."

I looked at John and saw him pale a little as he looked at the screen. I didn't hesitate to reach his side. For some reason his change in appearance and his voice faltering made the protection in me surge.

I'm not liking it. At all. Caring. Not my forte in the slightest.

He seemed to be looking at one of the pages on his blog. It was on the 'Melted Artist' page (really, he could have picked a better name). The cursor was hovering over the send button, but clearly that wasn't what John was looking at. He seemed stunned by the message written in the reply box.

_Hello again. I might be a little late. I feel somebody may be following me and knows all about me and my whereabouts. Color me paranoid. Meeting you and your colleague this afternoon may be a bit difficult in broad daylight. Perhaps after night fall._

John stared at the message like he was staring at a murder that just occurred. The color still hadn't returned to his face. Judging from the common characteristics of knowing somebody, he more than likely suspected this individual.

And never told me about him.

"Explain," I ordered.

"What?" he looked at me surprised.

"You never told me of another client in the afternoon. You didn't say anything in fact. Yes you kept looking at the door like you expected something, but I half expected another client. Why didn't you tell me?" I kept delivering question after question. I wanted answers and even if this was not the best time, it bothered me that my little blogger kept things from me. Especially a client who is now dead.

Surprise surprise.

John groaned, "Because I didn't want you to immediately tackle who ever did come through that door with the questions you usually do ask. I also didn't want you to do that thing," he motioned at my entire form as if encompassing me as the thing he was speaking of, "of bombarding me with questions until I falter. Not okay, Sherlock. Besides, I didn't know who this person was so how was I supposed to tell you we have an anonymous client? I can just imagine the rants you would have had! You would have had a conniption."

I heard a cough and looked to where Lestrade was definitely not trying to hide his amused chuckles.

"Dave Sanders."

John turned to face the inspector as well and found him smiling apologetically from the laughter earlier, "The lads name is Dave Sanders. According to his parents, when he got up this morning he had breakfast, looked at his phone, suddenly appeared ill, and then fled to his room for the rest of the day. They heard nothing from him after that until the gun shot."

"Were they here the entire day?" John questioned.

Lestrade chuckled humorlessly, "Of course not. They left an hour before the suicide-"

"Murder," I corrected him immediately.

"Wait," Lestrade furrowed his brow, "Murder? Care to explain?"

John shrugged his shoulders and looked at me as if he wanted an explanation as well. I would have thought he was bored already if the little gleam of curiosity hadn't betrayed his desires.

Giving an exasperated sigh, I pointed around the room at the glasses that adorned its quarters as well as any other useful utensil in sight, "As you can see, every item in this room has to be placed at the convenience of the user. The pens, mouse, mugs, etc. they are all strewn on a side that if you were in his shoes, would be his left. That makes him left handed. There are no objects placed for the other hand so he was strictly left handed. He wasn't ambidextrous. Therefore, if he was left handed-"

"How could he shoot his head with his right and still make a good shot," John finished, nodding to himself. I felt a little proud for my blogger. He was growing to see more than the average bear. Maybe one day he can see things like me.

I frowned a little.

No, I don't want him to be like me. I like him the way he is. He's different than me and I would like for it to stay that way. If he was like me... that would make him boring. He was interesting the way he was.

Damn it. Concentrate Sherlock. On the case at that.

Lestrade wrote the observation down and then gave me a look of thanks, "As I was saying, they left an hour before the murder giving whomever was coming to kill him a fairly lenient window. We have no suspects except for the S.F. I am sure you two have heard of."

After a moment, Lestrade pulled out a note card. It was type written and signed with calligraphy.

_This one has lied about what he does to the weak at school. Like all of them._

_S.F._

John looked a little confused, but I smiled.

"The murderer knows the victim. Obvious. And not only does he know the victim, he clearly goes to the same school as him."

John and Lestrade exchanged looks before looking at me, "Sherlock you can't do that without explaining yourself." That was John. He's been getting on my case about doing that. Apparently, there is such a thing as timing. I wasn't really aware of it, but John keeps enforcing it. I think this time it was about me giving a conclusion without facts.

He's stripping me of my mysterious aura. Oh well.

I looked at John, "I was planning to... eventually. Anyhow, for one, the obvious. His eyes are closed. They didn't want to see the death and betrayal and closed them. Also, the note. It holds sentimental, personal matters in its words. 'What he does to the weak at school'? The murderer was bullied by this individual. How would he know this person if he didn't attend the same school to witness it? The person is taking revenge."

"Show off," John coughed into his hand.

"I have the talents, John. I'm not going to waste them," I smirked. He just rolled his eyes and ignored the comment.

Lestrade wrote the information down as well while John just shook his head, "Regardless of your ego, that was... amazing."

I smiled at the praise.

"So, inspector? Do you need me for anything else?"

He tilted his head to the side a little, "Besides some crucial evidence to catch the criminal, not really."

I gave a grimace, "We have to wait. The murderer will strike again. They are not done. Not in the slightest."

I could hear John groan when I uttered the word "wait" though I don't think it was for the same reason as what I abhor in the word.

**_Moriarty's POV_**

Making a noise of complaint, I flew onto the sofa, flinging my arm to cover my eyes.

Sebastian ignored the action and concentrated on what his hands were doing instead. I think he was used to my attitude by now even though he knows I can be very changeable. Its a quirk.

"What's wrong now?"

I didn't hesitate in making my thoughts known. Of course. Why should I?

"Sebby, why is Sherlock so boring?" I droned on.

I knew that Sebastian was probably annoyed with my tone, but he made no effort to make it known, "Don't ask me. You chose him. Said he was an interesting opponent."

"Oh he is!" I exclaimed, sitting up again and moving my hands animatedly, "He's an opponent so unlike the others. Not to mention that if I get him, I can get to the higher ups like his no-good brother. Now _that_ would be an interesting game! Until then, Sherlock is the opponent that matches my qualities best. A person who sees beyond what the ordinary see and specializes in making those facts known. He rarely holds sentiment, which makes it all the more fun to watch him crumble since he will have no one to rely on, but even if he did, I could still capture him. I'm the king on my side of the board as he his on his. He may be able to take a step in an direction open to him, but so can I. We are equals. Exactly alike but in different professions."

Giving such a descriptive design for the detective didn't come without the huge gestures and volume. I knew exactly what I wanted to do to him, and if not him, then to that lovely doctor of his. I have a list and if I could, I would perform everything on its agenda. Twice. Three times. As many as I want.

Oh, I do hate limitations.

"So humor me," Sebastian requested while fiddling with his knives, "Who are the queens in this gigantic game you seem to perceive is there?"

I laughed, "Like you have to ask."

Walking over to his seat, I swiftly grabbed one of his knives and held it to his throat without letting a bead of blood fall. Sebastian watched me with indifference though I could clearly see the minor changes of suspicion in those orbs. He thought he knew me. He thought I would never waste him. If he thinks that, he isn't going to last long in my book.

He really should know better. I am, after all, the minds in this game. He's just a very powerful asset in it, but I am the brains.

But I won't punish him. Not yet. I want him to be in his best condition when we meet Sherly. Last time I punished him, let's say I couldn't stop. He was covered in blood, cursing every name, and held plenty of broken bones.

And yet here he stays.

I just love how that works out.

"You, my loyal assassin, are my queen. You can be anywhere and anything I want you to be. Anything at all. You obey my rules, but you are not higher than me. Not at all. You can move however many spaces you wish and I will watch from the sidelines with glee and amusement as you slaughter his pawns and knights, bishops and towers. They will all be gone and it will be by your hand," I neared his ear and whispered harshly, "And when the time comes where you will be alone on the board with only Sherlock on the sidelines, then and only then will you face his queen. His John Watson. And from there, the final battle will be the most interesting to watch."

Sebastian said nothing. He didn't have to. He understood me fairly enough and knew when to keep his tongue in his mouth. After all, he's had multiple incidents where I would accidentally cut it a little for saying things he wasn't supposed to.

Good boy. I patted his cheek lightly and grinned like I wasn't holding this wonderful blade at his throat.

_Not today Sebby._

Keeping the knife, I walked away from him and noticed his chest rise and fall in almost unnoticeable relief.

"But," I sighed, "Sherlock isn't aware that it is his turn to move. And I am becoming rather impatient."

"Why don't you just make yourself known? You were, after all, the one who initiated this long hiatus. Drama you said. I suggested otherwise, but your mind was in cloud nine as they say."

I smiled at the thought before shaking my head, "Oh no, that will not simply do at all. I want to build what he thinks of me. I want him to try and shake out my profile. I want him to think he his two steps, three steps, seven steps in front of me so that when I suddenly tap him on the shoulder with guns pointing at him in all directions, he won't have the slightest clue what to do. His mind palace won't be of any help and he will be speechless and fearful. I can't wait to see that look. I have waited too long already."

Sebastian rolled his eyes at me, but I grinned brighter, "Don't worry. I have an idea to make myself known to him. Eventually. And it will be in effect tomorrow. Ah, I can't wait to meet him again. It will be so much more effective when we meet in the finale of my first plan!"

"Won't the doctor notice him?" Sebastian asked and I paused.

"Perhaps. But we did hold him in a dark room for that reason. He will most certainly notice you, but he will barely notice me. Sherlock may notice me, but not if he is into his little experiments, therefore, no room for error is made."

As I walked around the room, I heard Sebastian begin to sharpen his tools of infliction. He was preparing himself even though his knives are not what he is known for. Oh no, that would be his sniping. With a gun he can shoot anyone. That is what he is known for in his old profession of the military ranks. Of course, bitter resentment brought him to me. Ah, I love these lovely turn of events. First he works for them and aids in their distress and now he helps cause it! Wonderful. I wonder what his superiors would think of him?

Ah, well, I suppose I would never know. After all, the way I got him to join me was to... get rid of the higher ups that destroyed him and left him for dust, much like the army doctor.

I sighed. If only he would join me. I have heard that he is also well trained in guns. Well known for his name "Trigger Finger". I would love to have two men like that, but he is boring. He's on the side of the angels, with Sherlock. Now he wouldn't want to join me with his heart tainted with such goodness. Oh, it hurts.

Well, all the more fun when we break him. Then he will no longer be a threat.

Sitting down on the sofa once more, I grab a pair of scissors and some paper. My fingers began to blindly cut the paper. I didn't know what it might form, but my thoughts were elsewhere.

Like that stunning detective.

It was only a matter of time until I held him in my clutches. Until he was restricted to my checkmate.

But for now. I have to watch from the sidelines. Perhaps after my fun with these recent spree of murders I can actually make myself known. Oh, the fun we would have!

The scissors in my hand kept slicing the paper as I thought of our encounter.

There are so many ways to make myself known. I couldn't possibly use them all, sadly. Maybe I should use the method that puts him in his place the most? Making him feel like he missed everything? That would be a sight to see. A picture to capture.

I suppose there's a good reason why I still have one more murder planned before I actually set myself out there. And that one will be the most amusing.

But I suspect this one should work for now. Maybe it will help poor Sherlock with figuring out Johnny boy's past that he is keeping so hidden.

I grinned when I finished cutting the last corner. Marvelous.

Unfolding the paper crown, I place it on my head and cross my legs on the sofa.

"What are you on about now?" Sebastian spoke with an annoyed expression.

I grinned, "Oh you know, preparing for the future I suppose you could say."

"Oh really?" Sebastian rose a brow, "And if you ever did obtain a crown and faced the detective, what would you say to him?"

I snickered, "Oh nothing of severe length. But definitely something to keep him thinking of me."

"Which is?"

Taking a deep breath, I crossed my legs in the opposite position as I spoke, "I can open any door, anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now. They're all mine. No such thing as secrecy. I OWN secrecy. Nuclear codes? I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king. And honey... you should see me in a crown."

"...Drama queen."

I grinned, "But you love that about me!"

* * *

><p><em>Alright! Yes, Drama Queen is a constant bickering tool in this. Love using it. Expect it a lot.<em>

_I'm sorry these are so short. I'm trying to get to the point and back the writing. A lot to plan. A lot to write. A lot to edit. _

_So! Another murderer? I'm at a crossroad with this. Heavily so. I could stick with tradition and use three murders and then on the last one introduce Moriarty. _

_Or I can be the odd ball._

_Haven't decided, but I have all this murder to plan it! God I missed murders. Definitely my forte. _

_I love Moriarty in this chapter. I was a grinning fool for his part. I would love to dedicate an ENTIRE chapter to Moriarty, but not yet. He will get his time to shine with that lovely paper crown of his. But not yet._

_Oh! Sneak peek guys: The next chapter? Another flashback. Remember that son and mother? Yeah, they are coming back... but it will not end good. Sorry John. Things are really horrible for you when I'm the writer. *sigh*_

_So, favorite, follow, review, or read._

_Ciao~_


	15. Chapter 15

_Another not so long chapter. Sorry. I edited this and I didn't see a way of making it longer without pulling in all kinds of poetic metaphors. _

_You will finally get to see what happened to the son and mother. I'm sorry guys. I'm an Attack on Titan fan. Terribly so. So it... influenced their demise. I just happened and I lack the heart to change it._

_Oh, also you get to see John start that long...long... long road of maybe liking Sherlock. Ever so faint._

_Disclaimer: Do not own Sherlock._

* * *

><p>Chapter 15<p>

**_John POV_**

I sighed heavily as I crash into the worn arm chair. It felt comforting on my back and I let the relief filter through me. My legs were sore and my injuries felt like they wanted to make their own two-cents known, but I didn't mind. Finally, another murder for Sherlock.

Wait. I shouldn't be happy about this. Somebody else died. Somebody else was altered of their fate with the causes of unnatural death. The reaper came too soon and sliced their red strings of vitality. It's... inhumane to be happy about that. That man, he probably had a life he wanted to experiment with. He probably had a girlfriend or an interest. He had friends and he had family and now neither of them will ever see him open his eyes again. Neither of them will be able to forget his cold face.

I should be able to understand that. Me of all people. After all, I was the one to view and classify every single man in my group when I got home. I was the one to tell their wives and spouses of my faults as a captain. Tears were shed. So many. If I had collected every scream, it would be a thousand times louder than an noise thunder could produce. If I had somehow carried all the tears they shed for their husbands I promised to bring back, it would be more than the ocean.

It's funny. I don't know what was worse then. For them to look at me with grieving expressions and saying that I did my best. That I couldn't have done anything to save them. That they were probably smiling down wherever they are now.

Or, that I knew it wasn't true and couldn't tell them. I couldn't tell them that they didn't truly die in a battle against vigilantes. I couldn't relieve them of the lies they were told. I was selfish. Incredibly so. I still am.

Squeezing the bridge of my nose with my index finger and thumb, I tried to blink out the memories.

Thank god Sherlock wasn't here. If he was, he would be going at it right now. Deducing my expression to the point.

But no. Of all things he was going after, he ran to get a bloody cellular phone. He didn't even bother to explain himself, saying time was at the limit.

"_Mr. Sander's," I heard the detective next to me ask to the grieving father. One look at him and I could see all the little gears in his head going round and round. He was clockwork. The clues he held and evaluated were the numbers of his clock face and the hands moving around the clock was the mind of his. No matter how far the numbers may be from those hands, he would always eventually get to them. Nothing deterred his genius. _

"_Y-Yes? What is it?" He grumbled next to his comforting wife. His eyes were already bloodshot and he seemed to be even more of a wreck than his wife beside him. She was a strong one, I concluded. Probably the brawn of the family._

_Her eyes shown brightly with protective courage. It was an admirable trait in anybody these days, though she was shining it on the wrong person. We were not the criminals who stole her son away in the night. We didn't reap him. We were only the ones trying to solve their grievances and put him at peace._

_Even if that was a load of bollocks sometimes._

_Her gaze never left Sherlock. I could tell she was beginning that trek of distaste. In all honesty, I was wondering how long it would take. She was strong, but she seemed very easy to deceive._

_I sighed. But even the strongest of them are probably going to shed tears tonight._

"_Was your son attending college before this occurred?" _

"_Um.." the man faltered, "Yes. Oxford. He just came home today. He was an honor student, aiming to be a doctor," his lower lip began to tremble, "b-but now..." He burst into another bout of tears and I felt sympathy for the man. I wasn't a father. I couldn't relate to the grievances he was feeling. The closest I have gotten were... comrades. _

_I wouldn't tempt the devil with trying for a family. Otherwise, I wouldn't be like this man if they were slaughtered. No, I would be among them. Shot in the head. Plain and simple. Because I was weak once and surrounded with dark shrouds. Because of that weakness, I am still partially open to the subject of ending my own life. It would be so easy._

_Very. Especially one of my caliber._

_So seeing this man, with his wife rubbing his back, not doing anything or showing any signs of pursuing the act, I held a great amount of respect for him. Even in these poor times. He was stronger than I. Most were._

"_Then, may I ask, where you son's baggage may be? And his cellular?"_

_As always, Sherlock's words caused quite a stir. It is Sherlock I am speaking of._

"_Eh?" he cried, "I don't know. I didn't see him come in with it. He just appeared with that smile-"_

"_Yes, yes. That smile that's going to set off even more tears. Please do us all a favor, and spare the blubbering mess," I saw him roll his eyes and glared at him, "Did he arrive in a cab or did he carpool per chance?"_

"_Cab," This time it was the mother. Her voice was a lot sturdier than her counterpart beside her. She didn't seem to like Sherlock, but then again, not many did. He was hard to adjust to._

_I myself was barely used to him._

_Nodding to himself, he took out his own cellular and began to tap away at it's screen. He seemed to have achieved whatever he was aiming for within the same minute and began walking away. I caught up quickly while Lestrade apologized to the parents and for the rude detective beside me. _

_He didn't look at me and held a certain glimmer in his eyes._

_Thrill, I recognized. He was up to something. Again._

_Damn it._

"_Sherlock?" I looked to him in askance, "What was that about?"_

"_Hm?" He responded though I could tell he wasn't listening. His mind was elsewhere._

"_The phone? The luggage? Care to explain what that was for?"_

"_Oh!" He exclaimed and begun making gestures of all kind, "I really don't see how you could have missed it. It was so obvious! I'm sure you have noticed his age and appearance. With his stature, he would have a phone on him at all times, whether love interests or work. Considering the amount of time he seemed to have put into his attire and hair, I would bet on the primary than the latter," he waved his hand dismissively, "Anyways, if he arrived just from college, he would have a few bags of luggage. Something to accommodate for his absence yet I'm sure you noticed that he didn't have any. Who would come back from college without clothing or souvenirs? Especially himself. But his phone and_ _baggage was gone. Missing."_

"_And," I asked, still a little exuberant over his deduction, "How do you plan to find this mysterious piece of luggage? You can't just go to random cabs and search their compartments. It's indecent, Sherlock."_

"_I know that!" he exclaimed, but then smirked, "The killer wouldn't keep it. He would dispose of it. As for finding it, the killer made one flaw in his plan."_

"_Which is?"_

_His grin became mischievous, "The atrocious attire of this boring world."_

_I didn't have any time to question him for after that moment he was gone. Out the door. Air born. Driving off into the bloody sunset. If I was in a bloody comic, it would have been dust. In other words, I just lost Sherlock Holmes._

_Wonderful._

_I really should get a tracking device for him. Lestrade might help me with that if I mention it. _

_The last person I wanted to hear his disappearance from was that female. The darker skinned one with piercing eyes. She always seemed to enjoy antagonizing Sherlock. He never really shows an emotion to the grumbles and mantras, but it doesn't mean that everyone reacts the same._

"_Left you I see," she whistled lowly, walking beside me, "He's not your friend, you know. He can't make friends. You are just another stray for him to pick apart and break. I expect yet another accomplice next week. Surprised you even lasted this long with the freak."_

_I sighed, "I don't count him as my friend... but I'm not just another stray. I'm just... nobody really. A colleague at best perhaps."_

_She stopped and I halted with her, confused._

_Measuring me with her eyes, she nodded and lifted the yellow tape for me, "You seem like a nice guy, despite the company you are around, so here's a bit of advice. Leave him. Stay away from that guy. Go back to where you came from because it is better than being with him. You hear me?"_

_I laughed humorlessly and crossed under the yellow barrier, "Go back? Go back where? Let me tell you this, there is no place for me to return to so quite frankly, this man has saved me from the place I came from. He spared me a glance compared to the bloody fools out there who don't give a damn."_

_The irritation seeping in was obvious. She looked annoyed. Wouldn't be the first time somebody hated the stubborn quality of mine._

"_Look, you know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."_

_The certainty in her assertion didn't go unheard, "Why would he do that? All he has ever done for the Yard is catch the criminals and put families at ease. Yeah, I will admit he is a odd man, definitely weird, but he also puts his entire soul into solving the case. I don't see you guys trying that hard compared to what I have seen him do," I sighed, "So why would he kill somebody? Humor me."_

_Her eyes hardened. The flame in those orbs were bright and very absolute in who they wanted to burn. A certain detective. A man that wasn't here._

"_Because he's a psychopath. Psychopath's get bored," she paused and peered at me, her brows furrowing ever so slightly, "And yet, I wonder where you fall in this. You protect him so fiercely that it is almost as if you two have something going on. Do you?"_

_Thank god for the dark shroud of the night. My cheeks began to inflame at the mere mentioning of anything related to that and the man._

"_No. no," I denied, "not at all. I just don't like unjustified accusations. Especially since I was on the bad end of one."_

_Leaving her with that in her mind, I walked away and hailed a cab back to the flat._

So here I was. An empty flat with only my thoughts. An unwanted onslaught of company. They swirled around me, following me with little whispers of my past. Some danced with lies believed to be true. I ignored them, used to their bitter phrases, but I was a tad too late. I was already at the start of memory lane, what's stopping me from going back? Even now, words from my past are directing my present. Specifically the words the sergeant told me.

_He's a psychopath. Psychopath's get bored._

I didn't believe her. Not for a second. Sherlock was not that way. He wasn't. He wasn't exactly a good man, but he wasn't messed up either. He had a firm grip on reality. Whether it is the way he sees it or the way it actually is is beyond me. Donovan was wrong about him, they all are. He is an amazing man that can solve any case with just looking at your pinky, or your tie.

A psychopath is a title you earn from the deeds you perform, not the arrogant notions you suffer from. There are a billion lights out there on the horizon and if you were to put them together, a psychopath still wouldn't be able to see it because their mind is so dark and lukewarm. All they would be able to comprehend is the dark haze that is now their incoherent mind. Psychopath's don't care about being courteous or decent in civilization because they know they can overcome it. That is a bloody psychopath and Sherlock was not one.

Not in my book. Not ever.

And then there was a sociopath. His other title but this one being self-given.

Even now, I'm not even sure if a sociopath fits him. No title seems to fit him like a glove. A psychopath is for those who will never be able to retrieve the light they snuffed out. A sociopath is an individual whom sees others as impersonal objects to be manipulated to fulfill their own narcissistic needs without any regard for the hurtful consequences of their selfish endeavors. Sherlock doesn't fit this either. This was just a mask for him. He may try to exert his indifference, but what kind of man saves their recently acquired flatmate without giving a damn?

If I had a notebook, I could easily go through every crude name anybody has called him, effectively crossing it out. I wouldn't be forced to do it either. I would gladly cross out those names because nobody should have to live with names stacked on themselves like the world. He wasn't Atlas. He can't hold the world and its accompanying troubles with his bare two hands. Even the god himself had problems holding the planet on it's hinges.

Sherlock was just another man. He wasn't some machine. He wasn't an alien of sorts. He wasn't a bloody killer for gods sake. He was just another man, smarter than most, that placed himself above the others because of that and just so he didn't have to give himself a title, he found the one that suited him best. The one that most people would agree with.

Because they didn't even try to understand him or get to know him.

Except for me.

_You protect him so fiercely that it is almost as if you two have something going on. Do you?_

Before, the thought made the blood rush to my cheeks, but now it didn't have the same effect. No. I wasn't in that sort of relationship and may never have one like that. I didn't deserve it. Not at all. Until my past releases me from its rusty clutches, the future is as visible as a pearl in a murky swamp. If I wanted that future, I would have to gravel on my hands and knees and attempt to reach it, but I didn't have the opportunity. Not when the men of my past the the reaper of my present reaps me of any thoughts.

I could feel a headache coming on from all this and sighed. We didn't even have any medicine for it because of me. For some reason, Sherlock never seems to get sick really, or even a sniffle for that matter, but I get everything. And yet I still have nothing for it.

Decidedly ignoring the pulsing pain, I open the laptop beside me and attend to my blog. At least that will keep me occupied until Sherlock arrives.

If he arrives.

Ah, wait. Email. I have to check that. Harry has been bothering me ever since she found a way to get a hold of me. I didn't like it. I wanted her to forget me. It would be so much easier if she had. But that isn't the case apparently. I'm never that lucky.

Sighing heavily, I opened my email and found two new messages. One, unsurprisingly, was from my loving sister. She must have been drunk or terribly awful at spelling because the title was just... horrible (Gld u r n0t ded. Really)

Just above it was another message. This one grabbed my attention mainly from the subject. Like the text of Mycroft. I had a sinking feeling this wasn't that man. Not at all. I'm sure he would have made himself known if this was him. This messenger didn't want me to know him. He wanted to keep secret. Hidden. Invisible.

So, of all things reasonable to do, I click the message.

_From: Anonymous_

_To: johnhamishwatson_

_Subject: To John Watson_

_This one has lied his entire life. It piles and piles. Oh the woe. Oh the grief. Because he was such failure, a mother died in engulfing flames and a boy was orphaned. All because he couldn't save them. All because he met them._

_-S.F._

I froze.

No. How could he? How... How could he have found out about them? Nobody knew I met them. Nobody... had the time to know about it. I was gone as soon as I arrived.

But I didn't leave fast enough. Not nearly. I should have left the second I landed on their doorstep. I should have. But I didn't. I was a vampire and was drunk on their happiness.

And just like that, my walls were breached and the memories came in like a torrent of water I tried to hold back.

_I don't know what hit me first to be honest. The warmth I was feeling all over or the small bickering of a mother and child over whether I was awake or not. Both maybe. They were being quite loud, even if they were trying not to be. Especially the little one. He was probably the one making the most noise, though I didn't mind it in the slightest._

"_But mummy! I want to hear the rest of the story!"_

"_Hush child," she scolded, "He's very sick and needs his rest. When he is better, you can ask **nicely**."_

"_Mummy!" the child complained and I could just feel the pout in his small voice. It must have been an adorable sight._

_I couldn't help it. I smiled._

_Apparently I had quite the attentive audience._

"_Mummy! Did you see that? Did you? Did you? He smiled!"_

_Her laugh was pleasant and I found myself chuckling lowly. Opening my eyes slowly, I blinked the crust that outlined their edges and let my pupils adjust to the light. It didn't take long and I was soon able to see a relieved mother eying me as well as a very excited child. Whatever that child was on whether candy, soda, or other, I really should get some because right now I just felt groggy and slow._

_I didn't like it. I was used to being fluid, quick, and alert. This was against my usual demeanor and I hated it. I didn't make it known though. I'm sure it was these two that saved me from whatever I had earlier..._

_I still couldn't remember that man. His face, once in high definition, was now a blur I couldn't define. It was annoying, but I let it drop. _

_Right, I never formally thanked these two... or asked how long I was asleep for that matter._

"_How long have I been out?" I looked to the elder woman in askance._

"_You slept almost a full 24 hours," the mother supplied helpfully, "It's nightfall so if you wanted to leave, it would be best to wait until the sun rises." Her mother tone came in soon after, "Besides, I want you to eat something! Have you seen yourself? You look like a starved animal and I will not have one in my house, you hear? You will be as plump as a pig when you leave if it's the last thing I do!"_

_I smiled, deciding not to put up a fight, "Yes mother."_

_She blushed, but laughed nonetheless, "You know what? Go ahead and call me that. Because until you are walking and not all skin and bones, I will mother hen you like no tomorrow! I guarantee it!"_

"_If it is the last thing you do?" I rose a brow in amusement._

"_If it's the last thing I do," she confirmed with a confident grin._

_Her son was lost._

"_Mother?" he questioned, "is he my brother?"_

_We both couldn't stifle our laughter at that and we corrected him gently that it was just a name. I was not related to them in the slightest though I could tell that the little boy was hoping for such._

_The mother briefly told me of how they found me. Apparently they were having dinner when a sudden knock surprised them (me). When they arrived to the door, they found a man who was barely alive. His lips were blue and his skin was white, drained. He didn't look close to being able to lift a single breath of life. That didn't stop the mother._

_She had apparently dragged me in, with the help of her son, and placed me where I was now. After dropping a blanket, she just let me be. Occasionally, she would force me to drink water and eat even a morsel of bread. Most of these weren't successful._

_I was a tad surprised. I didn't expect for me to be saved... by anyone really. I didn't see it happening for a person like me. It didn't seem possible._

_Yet, here I was._

_With a little resistance from myself, I was soon forced to the dining table and eating soup. The mother was on the opposite side with her bowl as well as her son. It was a comfortable silence filled with the occasional loud slurp from her son in which we both would giggle. It was a nice breather from the streets but I still knew I would have to leave. It still didn't hinder me trying to make my stay less bothersome. _

_After we ate, I put my foot down and offered my assistance for whatever she needed. I don't think I really had to do it though. She already had a bloody list of things for me because of all women to actually meet, I happened upon the clean freak._

_I didn't mind. It was a little contradictory to the little tike doing figure eights around her ankles, but I decided to keep my mouth shut. If she wanted me to mop every single bathroom tile, it was done. Sweep the living room until not a dust ball remained? Done. Lint roll the furniture? Done. Everything she wanted done, it was done as so and without complaint. Doing the chores brought back heavy memories of my own mother, but every time miss Alina would question my status, I would brush it aside. Nothing for her to worry her little pretty head of._

_When we were finished, I don't know what surprised me more. That we did all these down and dirty chores within the time restraint of an hour, or that she wouldn't let me out of the bathroom without a decent shower. _

"_But miss," I rolled my eyes, "I doubt I will stay long. Your clean house will remain clean and untainted."_

_She shook her head, her bandana wrapped around her forehead feathering behind her. She continued to block my path with the broom. A part of my pride fell to the floor when I realized I was being held hostage in a bathroom by a woman with a broom. How and when did I go from a soldier to maybe a housewife at best?_

"_Oh no you don't," she scolded me,"You see these floors? You see that shine? You are not going to come off that little mat right below your feet until it is clean feet. Clean feet, you hear? I do not want dirt and dust speckled on my floors and you are the epitome of that flea bag."_

"_Flea bag?" I rose my brow with a quirk of my lips._

_She smiled, "Okay, you can have your pick I guess. Let's see, there is flea bag, dust ball, or Saint the Unclean."_

_I laughed and shook my ahead, amused by this little woman who stopped below my collarbone._

"_Fine! Flea bag it is. I personally like that one."_

"_Can I have something cooler? Like Tasmanian Devil? It sounds a lot better in my opinion, miss."_

_She rose her brow, "No. Not going to happen because a. that is a mouthful to say and b. I am partial to flea bag."_

_I decided I had lost the battle and held my arms up in defeat._

"_Fine miss. I concede. I won't leave your precious bathroom without scrubbing every little grime off my toes."_

"_And between them," she asserted._

"_And between them," I added._

_Fixing the broom so that it stood straight by her side, she grinned, "Wonderful. Then here," she handed me some clothes, "These... these were my husbands, but I'm sure they will fit you if not a tad too big."_

_I grabbed the clothing and looked at them. They did look too big for me, but I wasn't going to complain. Beggers can't be choosers as they say._

"_Thanks-" I paused when nobody was there and the door was closed, "Alina."_

_Despite my fight to not take one, I would be lying if I said I was not overdue for a shower. It was amazing having warm water- warm water! – running down my back. Shampoo and conditioner and clean clothes. It was every homeless person's dream and I was living it. _

_But I was set on leaving. I was not going to stay and burden this family._

_To avoid another rant of my messy personality, I made sure I left no puddles or any of the sort on Alina's floors as I changed into the fresh clothes. They were bigger than me, by a lot. The sleeves hung limply by my side and the pant hems dragged on the floor. It was very.. comical to say the least if not a little sad. Pulling on the socks and drying my hair thoroughly and quickly, I left the bathroom. _

_And was immediately met with a little boy tackling my legs._

"_Mister! Mister! Please tell me the rest of the story!"_

"_Story?" I spoke as if I forgot it, "What story. I don't remember any story now."_

_The boy looked frantic, "No! Don't forget! Forgetting is not allowed!"_

"_Then what was it about?" I prodded. "Maybe I will remember?"_

_The boy grinned, "Oh! I know! I know! You said it was a story about a small little man called a hobbit! He was smaller than a dwarf and had hairy feet and fought dragons and-"_

_I cut him off with a low chuckle, "I don't remember him fighting any dragons."_

_The toddler looked troubled, "But did he, mister?"_

_With a few bouts of laughter on my part and the constant pleas on the child's, we had retired to the kids room where I told him about the mystical world I made up. Powerful wizards and war-tainted dwarfs. Uncertain hobbits and beautiful elves. For It being an instant story to keep the little tike off of him, it was slowly becoming more than that. _

_I told him everything and anything until he passed out. It was well after 8pm by then, but I still found a bemused smile coming to my face when he would mumble about not being asleep._

_Yeah. Sure kid._

_Shutting the door softly, I sigh and turn around to meet Alina. She was smiling, a genuine smile. Even though hands were placed heavily on hips, she still gave me a look of what I could only describe as gratitude._

_Gratitude for what? Putting her son to sleep? Helping around the house? Keeping her company?_

_I didn't deserve any gratitude for that. It was only common courtesy._

"_John, would you care to join me for some tea?"_

_Nodding, I followed her down the hallway and to her little kitchen. She already had to tea pot ready and poured the glasses, plopping a few sugar cubes after. Again, painful memories of my mother and my old life came pouring in and my smile faltered briefly. No, not here. I don't want to make her sad._

_And with that, my facade was back up._

"_So, where do you plan to leave after this," Alina spoke before smirking, "Flea bag."_

_Discarding her name for me, I hummed into my cup, "I'm not sure yet. Maybe down the streets. Maybe I'll begin looking for another job and pick myself up. It's anybody's guess at his point, miss."_

_There was a little scoff._

"_You can drop the miss, John. I'm not nearly as young anymore."_

_Laughing, I shook my head, "Who is these days?"_

_The silence reigned in after that. It wasn't uncomfortable as we both sat there with tea at our lips. A few creaks went unheard as the wind gently picked up. No rain nor snow to accompany it. That's good._

"_You can remain here, you know," I heard her say quietly and I sighed. I knew this was bound to happen._

"_No, Alina. I will not become a bother for you and your son. That isn't me," I smiled, "But I do appreciate the offer."_

_With a released breath of her own, she met my eyes with a weary grin, "At least promise me that if you ever need help – ever – you will come back here. Promise."_

_I felt her hands close around my own fisted hands and relished the warmth._

"_Fine, I promise. But I'm going to try and avoid it as much as I can. I will not mooch off of you."_

_She was about to reply when I held my hand up to quiet her._

"_Wait."_

_We remained silent for a while and that's when I heard it._

_The ticking of a bomb. It was so faint, but I could still here the ticks getting louder and louder as it got down to zero._

_I didn't react fast enough. I heard it ticking down dangerously before one and I couldn't grab Alina fast enough. In a swift cloud of dust and flames, the beams holding up the upper floor of her home collapsed. For a moment, my vision turned black._

_When it returned, I could feel my throat run dry._

_Alina was trapped. Her legs, both of them, were covered with the heavy debris of the wood and rusty nails originally holding the place up. All around her were the sparks of flame that licked at her eagerly, awaiting for her to fall to their will. It was horrifying. Terrible. _

_The guilt monster had returned and it mocked me once more for my failures. An unwanted friend._

_Without hesitating I was by her side, trying to pull the wood off of her but it was no use. I could barely manage an inch off the ground and if she couldn't pull herself out, it was a loss._

"_John," she coughed and I recognized the speckles of blood, "My son. Save my son. My legs... there both crushed. I wont be able to leave here... at least not without a major sacrifice. And I'm not ready to take that. Not me or my son."_

"_But-" I tried but her withering glare told me to do it without questions._

_Anger and self-loathing filled me as I went up the stairs to get her son. He was already awake and crying. When I asked why he didn't go downstairs, he said his mother taught him to never go near really loud noises because they could be dangerous. She was right. It was almost like she expected this._

"_Here, let me carry you," I ordered and he held his arms up. Swiftly picking him up from the waist and fixing his form to the nurturing stance of a parent, I went down stairs to the mother._

_That was my first mistake._

"_Mummy?" her son quivered, "Mummy?"_

"_I'm alright, love," she smiled tiredly though the pain didn't go unnoticed, "I need you to go with John."_

_The son reached his hands out to his mother, trying to squirm out of my hands to go to her but I held a firm grip. _

"_Go," she spoke softly, almost as if a lullaby, "I will be right behind you. I...promise."_

_Nodding to me, I whispered a hoarse apology before running out of the house. Not soon after the house crumbled more so. I heard her son cry and scream, but none of that could be heard over the roaring flames and dire circumstances. His screams were just another voice of the distressed. I wanted to give the same noise. God knew I wanted to. But I couldn't. My bloody persona refused it._

_A false soldier. A pretense of strength. That was all I had._

_The boy didn't talk to me. He didn't look at me. No squirming or questions came from him either. He was silent, eerily so. It didn't surprise me when I looked at his face and saw him sleeping. The pale brows furrowed in sadness and his bottom lip quivering heavily._

_It killed me. It was like the reaper was there to sow whomever came into contact with me. My mother. My comrades. Most of my family. Newly made friends. It was a list and I knew he wasn't done. He was never done. He would harvest every ounce of happiness from me until what was left was enough depression to kill a hundred men. Until I did the sowing of my own life and joined him silently and with sorrow._

_But this wasn't fair. It wasn't fair for the child. Because of me, he was now orphaned. Because of my selfish actions, I have now taken his mother._

_Walking up the steps, I felt my eyes wash over the title of a local orphanage. It was one of the best ones I knew. This kid deserved it. No, he deserved more. He deserved a bloody castle and patrons and everything the Queen could offer. He deserved that. Not this. Not the loneliness that has been a friend of mine for so long._

_Knocking on the door, I leaned the boy on the door and ran off without looking back. _

…

_A week later, the son died. Apparently he caught a awful bout of pneumonia and since he was holed up in his room, it was too late to help him._

_Two weeks after that, a funeral was held for the both of them. Mother and son._

_And while I observed from a distance with a withered red rose in my fingers, all I could think was the betrayal I had cause with interrupting their pleasant lives._

_I was a disease. A disease that was entitled to being quarantined._

I blinked my exhaustion away when I heard the rustling beside me. Despite the time I had napped, I felt more tired than before. Memories were at fault I suppose. Reliving them all over again was like witnessing the emotions again and again. What's worse was that because they were memories, they could return at any moment... just with a mere mention of what happened.

Like the individual who sent my claim.

Forcing my thoughts away from the tombstones of the lost, I decide to figure out what that noise was.

I didn't have to stretch far.

Peering to the side of my arm chair, I caught sight of a familiar blob of hair mixed in with mutterings. If his appearance didn't set off a red alarm, his blue scarf and iconic jacket sure did.

"Sherlock?" I questioned slowly, hardly believing it.

He turned around to look me in the eye for a moment, gauging my awareness. What caught me off guard was the faint glimmer of... something mixed into those deducing blue eyes. It was so faint, fragile even.

Before I could ask him of it, he turned away, "Are you done sleeping? We have places to be, suspects to catch."

_Of course_ I thought bitterly.

"And where exactly have you been?" I countered.

"Out."

"Out?" I looked at him in askance. He sighed.

"Yes, John. Out. Do you remember what I said earlier?"

"Is this before you suddenly ditched me or after?"

He was going to reply but I stopped him, "You aren't supposed to answer you know. Anyways, what did you find?"

With a small grin, he tossed a alarmingly shade of green and black at me. It was bright, but it held a certain familiarity to it.

"Is this...?"

"The college student's luggage? Yes precisely."

"How did you?"

"Find it? Simple. I looked around the perimeter for dumpsters that the murderer could have dumped it in on a second's notice. It didn't take me long."

Thumbing through the contents, I noticed the necessary assets and a few random assortments as well. Clothing. Chargers for electronics. A few containers of what must be toiletries. It was just the usual college student luggage to be bland. Except, it was lacking something.

"His... phone?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "The killer isn't going to leave his phone around, John. It would reveal who he talked to before he died which is a dead giveaway. Think before you speak."

Instead of biting back, I sighed, "So do you have a plan, Mr. Smartalec?"

"Actually," he beamed as he pulled out an empty vial, "Yes. I do. Why do you ask?"

"I... actually want to tell you something. Important actually-"

But he was already gone in that world of his. The one full of crimes and cases.

"Oh! Is this? Ah, wonderful!"

I could feel my courage falter. Why was I willing to do this? Why was I contemplating on telling this detective what I have kept to myself? I was going to show the cards that I kept close to my chest like a lifeline. At least, that is what I wanted to do, but as the time wore on, I could feel that falter. My certainty began to crash to the floor in wave after wave, leaving me cold and doubtful.

Sherlock eyed me when I remained quiet, "Sorry John. Can your confession wait? We have to go to St. Bart's. Finally some evidence has made itself generously known!"

With that, he ran down stairs.

I, on the other hand, rose slowly from my chair. Dusting off my pants, I sighed. Perhaps this is a sign that I shouldn't tell him. I mean, would he even take me seriously or would he deduce my thoughts at the time? Neither sounded appetizing in the least.

The will to tell him shrank back to the far corners of my mind as I followed the detective loyally as always.

"Yeah. It can wait. It's not that important after all, I suppose."

* * *

><p><em>...I feel bad for John and I'm the author.<em>

_I will say that I did enjoy writing the flashback of John and his encounter with Alina. It was fun until I had to write her death. It wasn't my most favorite death scenes since I had flashbacks of AoT with it. I almost let the son live. Almost. But then my fingers typed that he died of pneumonia. God I'm awful._

_Sherlock is a prat, but John is a tad awful at timing. Sherlock is on a case and while he may love to hear John's past, he's strictly on case mode. Of course... I have no idea when I will write John having the courage of telling Sherlock again... Maybe next chapter..._

_Well, review, favorite, follow, read._

_Ciao~_


	16. Chapter 16

_Lookie here. A double update. I promised one though in the process I had to make both chapters shorter than my usual because I wanted to get them out! ^^_

_Alright, I will warn now. until the end of this current murder, Study in Pink and the Great Game is a heavy influence. Specifically the moments at the restaurant and the pool scene. I didn't plan to do that, but it just happened. Don't worry. I plan to create more original scenes in the future. Hopefully when I have more time to do so. School's coming up so I have to prepare for that. Already bought a few notebooks to work on this at school. _

_This chapter is kind of a filler I will admit. There are a few significant details, but it is mostly a filler. Just keep that in mind._

_Disclaimer: (When can I stop writing these?) I do not own Sherlock_

* * *

><p>Muse Chapter 16<p>

_**Sherlock POV**_

I felt a sigh leave my throat as I glared at the body next to me. If I hadn't deducted that this boy was what he was, everything would be pointing to a suicide. If I hadn't been there, the Yard might have categorized it as a suicide and dropped it. But it wasn't one. Obviously not. That is too quick an assessment and an amateur conclusion.

Everything screamed suicide, but the obvious answer is not always the right answer. Nobody seems to believe that. Especially most of the lot at the Yard.

Taking a blood sample from the corpse, I place it in my coat pocket. John wasn't here either. He decided to go to the lab ahead of me. Perhaps it was because of the first time we arrived here I told him to do that or maybe it was because he didn't feel comfortable being around Molly. Whatever the reason, I was currently one of the only living individuals in the morgue, save for Molly.

"Um..."

I looked at her, "Yes, Molly?"

She remained silent so I shrugged and went back to getting a few more necessary samples. What I didn't understand, and what made it more like a suicide than not, was that there was absolutely no struggle. No skin was under the nails. No scratch marks or ragged nails. It was as if he did just as they claimed. But he didn't. Of course he didn't. If he had, I wouldn't be here. I would be doing some other case, or annoying John to the point he would leave to get milk.

It had to be poison. The vial that I gave to John before he ran off the the lab. That was the only conclusion I could see at the moment without some "help."

"Would you like to go get some coffee?"

Moving away from the body, I walked towards the door to get to the lab, "Black two sugars. Thanks. I'll be in the lab."

As the door closed, I heard a faint, "okay" but thought nothing of it.

When I arrived at the lab, I saw John fiddling with a guitar. It looked faintly used with the scratches and dents on the edges and the few marks of permanent marker initialing someone's name. It was perplexing. I was certain there had not been one in this lab before. Fairly positive actually.

"When did that get there?" I asked, shocking John in the process. He stopped fingering the strings and after a few seconds to catch his breath, he replied. He must have been in a trance. He did it often, though this was probably one of the few times that it wasn't something resulting in cries or whimpers of forgiveness. It was always similar to that night where he awoke me from his night terrors.

"Hm?" He looked at me then laughed, warm and comfortable, "Oh, this? I don't know. Molly said she actually brought it herself in case I get bored I guess. Considerate, eh?"

I didn't say anything and instead walked to the lab station to begin testing the blood samples and multiple others. Glancing on the opposite side of the lab table, I noticed a few of the beakers and test tubes already being used. Probably from John's analysis. I suspected that the victims had all been drugged before they were killed. It was the only way.

Well, unless they were already dead by poisoning before their "staged suicide". That seemed more likely. A lot more like the obvious benefactor in this case.

I was going to continue testing the samples when I heard strumming. On a different basis, I suppose I would have ignored it. When I was into a subject, I was not going to let anything get in my way of concentration. At least, that is what I made myself believe. Now, it seemed that was not the case. When the familiar strumming of guitar strings were heard, I stopped and looked at where John was sitting on the opposite end of the bar stool with his hands on the neck, stroking it gingerly as music was made.

My gaze never flickered back to my equipment, but my hands seemed to have known what was made for them. Glass clinked lightly but I didn't glance down to make sure I was being efficient in my work. For some reason, the doctor was a tad more interesting than the case I was conducting.

A statistic which surprised and intrigued me greatly.

Stopping altogether, I placed the glass tubes down and decided to scrutinize the doctor. Curious. That's what it was. I was curious on what the doctor held. It was something that I didn't comprehend when I first met him. How did I describe him? An unfinished book that had missing or invisible parts? It was the general feeling of not knowing everything on this man.

And I knew that he was hiding a lot more than he was letting on.

John looked up when he heard my clanking of glass tubes and beakers cease, "Ah," he smiled apologetically, "Sorry. I'll try to be quieter. This is just something to pass the time since I don't know exactly what you want me to do."

"Check the bullet?"

"Done. 9 millimeter."

"Residue?"

"Done."

"The poison?"

"Finished and written down on that piece of paper under your hand."

"Any mysterious substances-"

"Found none and if there were any, it is bound to be found in the fluids of the victim." John smiled as I found nothing more to give him for the time being.

"Is there anything else?"

I paused, "No. Go on."

I didn't bother mentioning the small amount of pride I felt in the doctor's effective analyzing. It was surprising but not at all unlikable.

Getting back to my research, I began the multiple testings for the blood. Presence of bacteria in the blood, blood oxygen levels, clotting factors, blood count, problems with liver or kidney function, and imbalances in the electrolyte levels. They could all be tested in roughly the same time frame since it was only adding one variable here and performing another there. Elementary.

Much to my annoyance though, I had to stop once more after completing most of the tasks listed. For once more, the doctor was plucking the strings and I had to listen to whatever he was offering me to understand this time. Whatever it may be, it might be a revelation to his past; a time that I would love to comprehend if even the slightest.

"_Another head hangs lowly,_

_Child is slowly taken._

_And the violence caused such silence,_

_Who are we mistaken?_

_But you see, it's not me, it's not my family._

_In your head, in your head they are fighting,_

_With their tanks and their bombs,_

_And their bombs and their guns._

_In your head, in your head, they are crying._

_In your head, in your head,_

_Zombie, zombie, zombie,_

_Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head,_

_In your head,_

_Zombie, zombie, zombie?_

_Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh _

_Dou, dou dou, dou, dou_

_Another Mother's breakin',_

_Heart is taking over._

_When the violence causes silence_

_We must be mistaken._

_It's the same old theme since nineteen-sixteen._

_In your head, in your head they're still fighting,_

_With their tanks and their bombs,_

_And their bombs and their guns._

_In your head, in your head, they are dying_

_In your head, in your head_

_Zombie, zombie, zombie,_

_Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head,_

_In your head,_

_Zombie, zombie, zombie?_

_Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh, oh, oh,_

_Oh, oh, oh, oh, hey, oh, ya, ya-a..."_

I paid attention to every word despite the fact that I had samples to finish testing as well as some of the substances found under the nails of the victim. I was completely entranced with the playing of John's fingers. Of course, I didn't mention this to the succumbed doctor.

It reminded me much of what attracted me to him in the first place. Why I had stopped in the streets and why I had even bothered to talk to him. Not only to deduct his past. Not only to make him feel a little less worthless than he appeared. I did it because of the secrets he failed to show and the ones he left in plain sight.

Especially the ones I heard in his voice now. The regrets he let simmer under each phrase. The secrets that wanted to be known and as much as I could have asked Mycroft, it defeated the purpose. For one, I was not going to be reduced to my brothers standards just to get information. I was not like him. I will either deduct it, or I will wait (rather impatiently might I add) for John to tell me himself.

Secondly, it just defeated the fun and pride in figuring it out.

I just wish he wouldn't play hard to get. It was getting truly tiresome.

When John finished his guitar solo, I figured I would ask him. At least, vaguely. I didn't want to make him angry. Though I'm not entirely good at that it seems. Many have told me such a fact. A few have told me to get a bloody book on apologizing, as odd as that sounds.

After a minute longer, John ceased. He watched the strings a moment longer. And then he looked up.

I thought this might be the right chance although I could have miscalculated.

"So what is the meaning of this song to you, John? It didn't seem personal, no, actually distant. Like you feel regret for something you couldn't control and held no relation to you. Considering your lyrics, I would suggest children and bombings. Not to mention in 1916 the Easter Rising occurred in Ireland-"

"Stop, Sherlock," John's form went rigid. The hand resting against the strings were in a loose fist and his other hand was no where in sight. His face was tilted forward as if he didn't want to look at me. The entire composition he held was saying he didn't want my intrusions at the moment.

"John. I'm just trying to-"

"Well, can you please stop?" he spoke before glaring at me. I didn't understand why he was angry. He has been fine with my deductions on his song until now. I don't see why the mere mentioning of my simple accusations are making him so flustered. Was it more personal than it was or was John just very annoyed. He didn't seem annoyed earlier, but he's good at hiding somethings from me.

Much to my chagrin.

"I'm going to assume you deleted the information from your database of a head. It just seems the only way for you to be so openly ignorant about this," John brought a hand up and sighed, "Back in 1993, a bomb attack occurred in Warrington that injured two children. Everybody turned a cold shoulder to those suffering and the children didn't last. Their blows were too fatal. One of them, a Tim Parry, was taken off life support with the permission from his mother due to him being virtually brain dead."

I was lost, "But that occurred in 1993, did it not? Why does it still bother you so?"

John's gaze was incredulous on my own before they hardened to agitation.

"It bother's me because it reminds me of my time on the streets, or when I came back with an injured shoulder to sport. No, it isn't the same as that. My case is so much less important than the lives of two young boys who never got to actually go to college or start a family. It isn't similar, but for me it is.

He took a sigh and I watched patiently, mentally recording what he was saying, "I'm sure you have noticed the streets lately. More and more teenagers or drunk men pile on to their filthy side walks and nobody spares a glance. In those aspects, my case isn't that different from them. Because much like the people then turned their shoulders away to ignore the suffering and pain, they did the same for us, for me. When things turned out awful – a blizzard, a storm, or raging heat – they would just turn away and mutter "I'm glad that I am not like that"."

John seemed like he wanted to sigh again but he stifled it with difficulty, "But you wouldn't understand what I mean. You are in your own little world, Sherlock. You see people and think of their lives with scientific notions and uninterested glares. The eyes in your head view crimes as cases and something to persuade your mind from boredom. Everything is an experiment for you. That's where we differ, is it not? I see things with emotion and understanding while you mutter about inconsistencies."

"It's like when Al-," He stopped. Silence was the only ending to his answer, but I still watched him like a hawk.

I awaited him to finish his sentence to make my own reply, but when he finally did stop I couldn't make my lips move. My vocals refused to make a single word known to my aggravated little blogger next to me. After watching me struggle for a moment, he decided to drop it and shook his head. I took it as a notion to stop because it apparently wasn't doing either of us any good.

He could have walked out then and I would have let him. After all, I needed a clear head to accompany me and people have stated that walking clears the head. If not that he could have played another song and I would have remained quiet. Music let's me see into him and right now I was very much confused. Lastly, he could have punched me or slapped me like he did last time. It would have proved no point except to injure me, but I wouldn't have retaliated because I knew it was my fault. I'm not a bloody idiot as some are.

But he didn't do any of that. He pulled the outlier card.

He put away the guitar and came over to silently begin checking the blood samples once more, the ones I didn't finish checking. I decided not to prod, even though he was practically dangling a piece of bait in front of my eyes, and joined in.

Regardless of what connections he held to the event and song, it still didn't add up to the over reaction I am positive I received. Even now his bottom lip is currently being attacked so viciously that he could possibly make it bleed if he keeps it up.

Ah... wait.

God, how can I be so _stupid_?

It wasn't the event that angered him. It wasn't that I prodded him of that song. No, not at all.

It was the fact that I got _too close_ to what he was hiding.

So, for him, the only rational way to excuse any future prodding was to get angry and flustered. Scold me and tell me a tale to keep my mind busy. This is evident when he stopped mid-sentence. He was going to say something of the past he is trying to escape and now I know he will be overly cautious. He already was before. Now it was going to be worse. _Lovely._

I sighed, but received no reaction from John. He was in his own little world it seems, much like he said had mine. Maybe remembering his past. Maybe scolding himself for his leniency. I haven't the slightest idea what goes through his head sometimes, though I would love to. It would get rid of all these secrets. God I hate secrets. I hate not knowing and he knows this.

The door to the lab opened, but I didn't bother to look up. I already knew it was Molly by the way her feet scuffled the tile.

"Your, um, coffee?" she confirmed, placing my cup close to me before handing John one as well.

"Thank you Molly," John spoke (and I'm sure with a smile) before nudging me roughly, "I'm sure Sherlock and I are very grateful for you bringing us coffee. And exactly how we like it as well."

Molly laughed, "Ah, it's nothing. I heard you singing down the hall. Wish I could have seen it."

"I-I'm not that good-"

"Oh, please, John," I interrupted, giving him a look, "Spare us of your little modest comments of how you don't deserve this and that. It doesn't change the opinion and is more rude than you let on."

John glared at me before thanking Molly again.

I was about to remark on his attitude, since he would always do the same to me, when the door opened again. I would have peeked up to see the newcomer, but I was almost done with the testing for the last sample of blood and I was not going to pull myself away from it for simple greetings that I doubt I'll remember later.

Besides John and Molly kind of filled in for me anyhow.

"Oh, Jim!" I heard Molly exclaim and rolled my eyes. Clearly a love interest. Strange, I didn't pick up such facts from her when I saw her. Must be recent.

"Hey... oh, am I bothering you?" Risking it out of curiosity, I decided to look at the man.

He looked... familiar. Hm...

Shaking it away, I decided to remember his face for later. Maybe I can pin it somewhere. Perhaps he's important somewhere. That would be rich.

"No, no! Come in, come in. Let me introduce you," I could tell Molly was smiling. It was obvious in her tone. Jumpy and more high-pitched than usual.

"This is John and this is Sherlock."

"Hey," I heard him say and resisted the urge to mock him, "So, you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. Are you on one of your cases?"

I didn't want to answer that, finding no reason to tell somebody not involved of the contents. Molly seemed to get the idea and quickly thought of something to say to break the silence. It wasn't awkward, not for me, so I see no reason why she had to.

"Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance."

"Gay," I muttered.

"What?" Molly and John spoke in unison.

"Oh," I coughed, "Nothing. Um.. Hey." I smiled at the man before getting back to the samples. John was giving me a look. Great. He caught me. Damn it.

Oh well. I already made him angry. Might as well spur multiple fits so I don't have to worry about the thin ice in the future.

Other than the familiarity I associated himself with, I saw nothing of real interest. He's gay. That was very obvious. I almost felt bad for Molly for falling for such a fool. Maybe I will be... considerate (I think that's the word...) and I'll tell her before we are out. John would be so proud.

That is, if he was in a good mood by then. He might still be testy over my deductions.

I resisted the urge to frighten the man away when I heard the clatter of petri dishes. Wonderful. There goes those blood samples. I swear. Molly better get this man out before I kick him out myself.

Oh, and I didn't miss that little slip of a number he made when he returned the sample to where it sat.

Hitting on me? Now, there's a first.

"Perhaps you should leave..." John spoke slowly, watching me. Yes. Thank you John. Get rid of him. He's being the inconsiderate one. Not me. Scold him too while you are at it. That would be wonderful. Maybe he will think twice before messing with _my _experiments. Idiot.

"Well it was nice to meet you," Jim spoke before walking out with Molly.

I felt a smack upside my head and flinched before glaring at John, "And what was that for?"

"For being rude," he replied with a huff, "You really need to learn common courtesy."

"I don't need to be taught something I already know, John."

"Well, re-learn it!" he exclaimed before placing the petri dish he was holding back on the table gently.

"You don't just go out and say somebody is gay in front of people. That could be offensive. And anyways, he's dating Molly. And they are happy from the looks of it. I don't see why you are ruining it with your deductions."

I sighed, "With that level of personal grooming?"

John rolled his eyes, "Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair."

He didn't see it, "You wash your hair. There's a difference. No, no. Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber's eyes. Then there's the underwear."

"His underwear?" John deadpanned. I could see him getting visibly exhausted, but decided to explain it nonetheless.

"Visible above the waistline. Very visible. Very particular brand. That plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under the dish here. If Molly was still here, I would say she should better break it off now and save her the pain."

"Considerate are you?" John spoke sarcastically.

"Very much so. I'm glad you noticed," I replied, retesting the blood sample again and reading the results.

Holding up the dish, I give it a small shake and smile, "Ah, wonderful."

"What?" John asked with exhausted curiosity.

"Our victim, and possibly all the others, was poisoned before he shot himself. At first, it could have been only two ways they could have died. Poisoned afterward and forced to choose or poison before and dead before the bullet pierced their head. It is the latter one of course by this little conclusion. In other words, he was dead man before the bullet even went through his skull. Wonderful."

Retrieving my phone out, I searched up the few places I could think of that would sell the poison I was thinking of. It wasn't something very common so easily traceable. Also, I'm sure if I were to text Mycroft he could lend me a few names that bought it. From there I could connect it.

Simple.

Pulling on my coat, I set the samples aside and wrap my scarf, "I just love new aspects in a crime. Don't you?"

John smiled at me and shook his head, following my lead outside the door.

_**John POV**_

When we got into the cab, the last place I expected Sherlock to take us was to an empty alley close to a busy street. I knew exactly where we were at as well with the level of trash and the consistent and nauseating smell of perfume in it's shadows. God, I hated going down this road when I had to go from street to street. For one, it never paid. Another, the smell would always interfere with my playing. Awful really.

"Sherlock? What are we doing here?"

"Charity," was all he replied.

We continued strolling along the side walk. I didn't know where we were heading, but Sherlock seemed to have an absolute direction in that head of his.

After a second thought, he pulled my phone – how the hell did he get hold of my bloody phone? – and tossed it at me, "Here, make yourself useful. I need you to send a text. The number is already programmed into your phone. Tell me when you have it ready."

Doing as he asked with low mutterings, I brought up the texting application and prepared a text for the only number I didn't recognize, "Ready."

"Okay, send this to him. What happened at the London Southend Airport? I must have blanked out. Meet me at Twenty-two Northumberland Street."

Typing away, I nodded to him when I finished. Afterward, he grinned and started walking again.

He kept glancing at the phone in my hand. It was like he expected something. Of course he didn't mention this to me. Of course not because I was supposed to read that bloody head of his. I'm not some mind reader. I can't understand him that quickly, although I can't say I understand him at all really.

I saw a grin switch onto the detective's eager face when the phone in my hand began to ring.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just _found_ that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer..."

The phone stopped ringing in my hand.

"...Would panic."

Clapping his hands, he picked up his speed in his stride. I quickly followed suit and approached him. I didn't want to prod and ask what he was doing now, but it was tempting.

"Right! Now onto my charity work."

I rolled my eyes. Right. Charity. That word and Sherlock for some reason didn't fit as well as it probably should have. I'm sure we were here for another reason that wasn't this charity case. Please. If I knew Sherlock, he probably held some sort of source here. Now, that would be more believable.

It figures that I wasn't too off the par with that hit.

"Mr. Holmes," a girl spoke, coming out of the shadows.

Sherlock merely nodded as he held out his hand. Without hesitation, the woman placed a small piece of paper in his palms. The exchange was swiftly completed with Sherlock giving her a few pounds for tea and possibly a meal.

Generous I suppose.

"Now," he turned to me, "We should be going."

I scoffed, "Going where? You said you had a plan, and yet I don't see one."

Smirking, he eyed me briefly, "We are going out to eat."

Turns out that "going out to eat" in his point of view was a stakeout for our criminal.

"So," I started, my brow already twitching from the minor agitation I was feeling, "what makes you think the murderer will appear here. I don't think he would be that easily persuaded."

Sherlock grinned, almost wistfully.

"Oh, no, he's not. Definitely not. He's brilliant."

I rose a brow at him, but his gaze was somewhere else outside the window, "I love the brilliant ones. They are always so desperate to get caught."

A smile found it's way on my lips. Of course. That was a very Sherlock answer.

I was about to comment on his thesis, but that's when a shadowed figure appeared. Stiffening, I flinched a little when I felt a pat on my back. I didn't recognize the person and didn't find the chuckling too relaxing at the moment. Peering at Sherlock, I noticed him roll his eyes in annoyance as the same motion was done to his back as well.

He must have known this person. It was made all the more clear whenever his name was stated in that friendly, "thank you" tone.

"Sherlock!" a voice bellowed and I quickly met the eyes of a very jolly bloke. He was all smiles and just that aura placed me at ease once more. He wasn't bad at all. Just a tad too comfortable around everyone for my tastes I guess.

I watched the men shake hands in silence until I heard him say, "Anything you want on the menu. It's on the house. For you and your date."

Heat pooled in my face as I caught Sherlock eying me with a amused expression, "I-I'm not his date!"

I honestly have no clue what made me more flustered at that moment. The fact that the host assumed such or the fact that Sherlock didn't deny it. Mr. I-don't-do-relationships said nothing. Absolutely nothing. Na-da. Zelch. It was an empty word hanging on a thread that I was very tempted to snip already.

The host seemed to ignore me and walked away, content with whatever Sherlock told him in my state of confusion and embarrassment.

Coughing and sipping the tea the host gingerly gave me to wash the red away, I sighed and tapped the table. I blame Sherlock for the habit. Even now he was performing the little routine and I almost followed suit. Thank goodness the man from earlier saved me. When he came back, neither of us ordered. Sherlock, because he seemed to content on awaiting for the criminal. Myself, because I didn't feel like munching on something in case we had to run. Common sense not to run when your body is digesting a meal.

Nonetheless, the silence between us was rather uncomfortable. I was used to it by this point with dealing with the stoic detective, but for some reason this particular time was very... nerve-wracking.

"So," I prompted.

As expected, Sherlock's drumming fingers hushed temporarily as he flicked his attention to me and away, "Yes?"

I shuffled in my seat, taking another sip of the tea, "Do you... have any friends? Not acquaintances or the sort."

At the mentioning of friends, he almost recoiled. Like the thought was foreign to him. I wonder what would have happened if I said enemies instead. Would he have just smirked and listed off a hundred or so? Would he say nothing? I didn't ask about it, but it was something I considered for the future tension breakers.

His brows rose, "What brought this question about?"

A shrug on my part, "Nothing. Just curious. You know, friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like," I paused, "Girlfriends, boyfriends..." I felt like an idiot uttering all of this, but I honestly hoped it would spark some sort of factual conversation regarding the interests of the ever elusive detective. He complains of hating secrets, but I don't see him telling me much of himself either.

I didn't miss him frown considerably at all the terms, "Ah... no. As I was saying before, dull."

I expected as such. "Um.. okay. So, do you have a girlfriend?"

Sherlock hummed, "No. Not really my area."

I went silent. My curiosity begged me to ask if he might have the other possibility, but I didn't want to come off rude. Or make things awkward at that. I mean, we are flat mates so it's impossible to use space as a breather for anything weird I say in the future.

Mildly content for the moment, I absentmindedly think of a song and move my fingers on the table according to whatever note would have tension on it's strings.

"...Do you?"

I looked up, "Excuse me?"

He spared a glance at me, curiosity, before looking back at the window, "Do you... have a girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever they call it?"

Blinking at him, I laughed. He was so awkward. It made me so much more glad that I didn't say it. His expression made the question look like he bit a lemon.

A frown was carved into his distracted face, "I don't see what is so funny."

Shaking my head, I answered his question as calmly as I could, "No. I don't have a girlfriend or boyfriend for that matter, not that I'm not looking for either." I shrugged. I guess he does have a right to know. I mean, what if I bring a date home or go out to one? I suppose a fair warning is nice.

"Either?" he furrowed his brow.

Laughing, I rubbed the back of my head sheepishly, "Yeah either. I'm sure you can deduct that. Don't worry though. I'm not looking for one right now. Too... busy." It was the best word I could come up with at the time that wouldn't spur his suspicions. I was still coping with the effects of the abduction from a few months ago. Sarah said it should end soon, or at the very least, lessen up a bit. But, I didn't see it happening yet. I still froze a tad at loud noises, occasionally spoke too quietly for others to here, and had to rare episode. Of course, for those I just went to my room to suffer alone or if I was at a scene, I would dismiss myself to the loo. Didn't want unnecessary worry to happen.

"Ah, okay."

Raising my brow, I was tempted to pursue why he was curious in the first place. It was a very devilish offer.

Before I could reign the words in, morality forced me to choke on them. No, I shouldn't bother him. He's thinking after all and probably on the murderer. I mean, what else? He didn't think much of the solar system, much to my disappointment, and he would much rather comprehend physics and chemistry than anything else. He preferred knowledge to the ordinary memories.

So, I left him to his own accord and gently sipped my tea in contemplation.

I suppose it was humorous the expression he had when I told him my preferences. I must say I have been a tad bi-curious, as they say, for the past few years really. It was a phase at first, but now I have come to accept it, not that I even hold a relationship. I'm not even thinking of one right now. Forcing some unlucky girl or mate to take care of a PTSD ex-soldier? No thank you. I wouldn't burden anybody with that.

I mean, Sherlock already has to deal with it.

Although, he doesn't seem to mind it much. If it's too bad that I blank out, he's there to bring me back quickly and efficiently. If I freeze, he pushes my forward to start me moving again. When my voice carries not far enough for any half-attentive ears, he repeats them with the volume they should be at. He was pretty much always there when I needed him which was something I was looking for in someone... right?

I blinked and cursed when I felt the tea go down the wrong pipe. Bending over a little, I cough violently a few times before feeling somebody's hand patting my back. It was quick and forceful, but it helped and within a minute the coughing subsided.

Turning to thank the mate who helped me, I was met with Sherlock. Although his hand had stopped patting my back, he hadn't moved it. I didn't say anything as he watched me for a moment.

Almost as if snapping back from a trance, he removed his hand quickly and moved back to the chair. He seemed almost forcing himself to concentrate now. I didn't comment on it.

Staring at my tea on the table, I sigh.

_You said it yourself. He's always there for you, _my mind cooed softly, _why don't you fall for him? _

_Because he isn't into relationships! _I argued while chewing on the inside of my cheek, _It would be useless to fancy a man like him. He doesn't want any sort of relationship at all. He likes cases and murders and science. Not love and all that nonsense. He said it remember? Dull. _

Nonetheless, after all this bantering, I relent a little _Besides. I don't want to become infatuated with anybody until I am able to tell him my past and my faults. If I can't do that, I'm not worthy. Not to him. Not anyone. Until then, and only then, will I comprehend such values._

_So you say and yet here you are, actually taking in the possibility, _it replied thoughtfully, _You may not be ready to tell him or even think of it, but it's definitely there. It could be labeled as friendship I suppose, but that would be like taking in wave and calling them a stranger._

I didn't reply to that. It was obvious that I had lost the argument against myself in this category.

Defeated, I noticed the reflection in the glass ripple from my shaking hands and released the glass on the table, moving my hands to rest on my legs.

_Yeah, but when will I be ready to tell him that? I almost did back there at the flat, but when will that same courage spark again?_

All of a sudden, Sherlock jumped up, "There!"

Looking out the window, I spotted nothing but a cab. Sherlock seemed certain he found what he was searching for, but I saw nothing of importance, "What?"

Putting his jacket on and wrapping his scarf, he motioned out there, "There. Around the corner."

I narrowed my eyes to see better, "The cab?"

He rolled his eyes, "Say it with more certainty! Yes, the cab. Oh! Marvelous!"

Giving him a look, I heard him sigh exasperatedly.

"Somebody who is everywhere and yet nobody ever realizes is there. They hear the secrets and they will never be suspected of gaining them. The perfect secret killer."

With that, he looked at me for a moment, "... stay here."

"Excuse me?" I spoke incredulously.

He didn't repeat himself and calmly walked out of the restaurant. Once out the door, he suddenly changed into a different person. His movements were languid and he was having trouble walking. He was a pretty convincing drunk. Going over to the cab, I watched as he knocked on the driver's side.

Arguments pursued with Sherlock pulling dramatics and the driver appearing almost exhausted, but I guessed it must have been Sherlock asking for a ride or some sort.

Wait. If he was getting a ride, he was bound to leave me here to go on his own. Again!

"Bloody hell," I swore before stumbling out of the bar.

But I was too late.

The last I saw was the man come out. The sliver of shine reflected a syringe as he pressed it into Sherlock's arm. Almost immediately afterward, he tossed him into the back and got into the driver seat.

"Hey!" I shouted but the man was already driving down the streets of London faster than any cab should.

Cursing, I brought out my phone and dialed the one person I could think of that would help me right now.

"Hey," I sighed as I was met with Lestrade's warm greeting, "I need some help. Sherlock is in trouble."

Stifling a grin at his remark, I sighed and looked in the direction where Sherlock's captor drove off in, "Yeah, again."

* * *

><p><em>The song sung in this chapter is Zombie by The Cranberries. I adored the song the second I heard it. When I first heard it, I knew it wasn't off zombies like it says and researched it. It's truly a really sad song and that's why I influenced it in this chapter. I was going to place John in that moment. Very tempted actually. But I decided to make the meaning very similar to his own. Pretty much to put Sherlock in his place for being such a bloody prat.<em>

_So, John. Now you see in his head. His heart is contemplating Sherlock. It truly is. But then his past reigns him in like a retractable leash. He is just out of finger's reach. _

_Oh! Has anybody seen the Pilot episode? I saw it and there's a small reference to it in here. Like when Sherlock acts drunk to the cabbie put gets drugged and kidnapped instead? Yeah... I almost had the whole "dump glass onto face and have Angelo throw him out" thing happen, but didn't think it worked very well._

_Ah, yes. Next chapter. Coming up!_

_You know the usual. Review. Favorite. Follow. Read._

_Ciao~_


	17. Chapter 17

_Before I say ANYTHING else, I will say this chapter is not edited. Not at all. Completely left as I typed it. Mainly? Because I was lazy. Mostly because it deterred from Moriarty's lovely POV. Yes. I said it. This is ENTIRELY Moriarty's point of view. I have been tempted for the last few chapters to give him his own chapter but it never happened. Now it has and I adored writing it. Loved it too much actually. Meh, I love the consulting criminal too much I think._

_References to A Great Game, but I did put my edits in there. _

_Hm... I really have nothing else to say. Going to a Paramore/Fall Out Boy concert tonight. Awesome stuff._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock._

* * *

><p>Chapter 17<p>

_**Moriarty's POV**_

"How long do you suppose until he arrives with the detective," Sebastian idly questioned. He was performing last minute check ups on his sniper, making sure not a single bullet could give a moment's worth of hesitation. Taking apart the weapon, cleaning it, putting it back together, checking the scope – oh you know the drill. I've seen him do it so many times that I could mentally claim which step he was at just from the curses he swore or the noises I heard.

Chuckling lowly, I peered out the corridor to the pool, watching the lights dance across the clear surface of the water like some intricate performance, "Oh, I wouldn't suspect much longer. I'm sure our pawn knows how much I despise lacking punctuality."

Sebastian joined the laughter temporarily, probably relishing the pleas and muffled screams he had accompany the few broken bones he offered to break oh so voluntarily.

He was a squirmy one, our little secret forager. At first, I wasn't sure if he would be able to do the job. Too hesitant and had a bigger mouth than Sebastian at times. I personally would have done off with him sooner, but he was necessary to drag out my little detective. In all honesty, he didn't even do any of the work. It was all me with a few facts from my sniper.

Simple process really. Quite simple. I half expected Sherlock to maybe _trace_ the messages sent to the computer – actually, I wished he would have done that – but he was boring and decided to go the moral route. I didn't think he had one, but I blame the doctor for that. That John Watson. He seems to be persuading naïve Sherly to the angels.

Naughty Johnny boy. Very naughty.

Of course, the damage is already set. I can't go back and change it. There was no way for me to do that , but oh I wish I could have. If I could have gotten to Sherlock early enough, we could have been made an indestructible group, he and I. Nobody would be able to get in our way. Two masterminds who were well versed in the subject matter as murders and crime scenes. Lovely fantasies really.

But it was too late. Sadly. Now I had nothing left to do but get rid of him.

"Sebastian," I muttered, my voice surprisingly bitter. Sebastian heard it too and seemed to decide it was better for him to not reply with his usual voice. Good boy. I taught you well.

"Go to the roof top."

His brow furrowed, "What of you? Surely you don't expect me to-"

When my gaze fell on him, unfazed and annoyed, he went silent "Must I remind you what I can do if you disobey me? I won't hesitate you know. I'm fully capable of putting you down."

Sebastian looked away, a knowing frown on his face, "Yes. I know. I just don't think it is wise for you to be going against the detective alone. It seems... reckless."

Almost as if a complete 180, I felt my tightened expression relax into a grin, "Oh, Sebby. Please. When am I ever as careful as you? It's not me and you know it," I laughed humorlessly, "Besides, according to our source, he is a tad drugged. If he does have a weapon, our man will take it from him. He is completely at my disposal."

"And if the doctor shows up as well?"

I smirked, "Oh don't worry about him. He won't do anything while I have Sherlock in my grasps. He seems to hold a certain amount of affection for the man, interestingly enough."

"A future way of leverage I would assume?"

Patting him on the head, I beamed, "You know me all too well!"

No more questions were heard. That's good. I didn't really ever hold a liking for them. They often came in waves and not small ones either. Sebastian seemed particularly persistent in using these also which didn't lead to the best of circumstances. Normally a few scratches, sprain, or a broken bone from a... ah, let's just call it a accident. That's what people usually call it, no?

"Now off you go."

Sebastian gave one last concerned look at me before he made his trek up the stairs. They were quick steps despite the small feud we had. I suppose that's one of the good quirks of Sebastian. He never wore his emotions on his sleeve for all to see and didn't let it get in front of his work. I can't remember how many times we have had worse arguments than this and he still made the target effectively. Of course, he always avoided me after that, always wanting to be alone.

But I didn't like to be alone. I despised it. Being alone left you to your own thoughts too often and in my case, I suppose that isn't a good thing. As wonderful as my mind may be, being alone to ponder such idle nothings are actually quite boring and wear the nerves.

Hence the reason I have Sebastian, although he is a queen is this chess game, and not just by stature either. Much like a queen, he hides in his room and avoids the king's murmurings and wonderings to the best of her capability, never coming out of her room. Locked doors. Hidden rooms. Secrets to be kept. It's so trivial, but Sebastian fits the group well. Unless he wished for some useless item to play with, he does nothing unless given my orders.

Ah, but that's thinking too much into my game, isn't it?

I really should be ignoring the banter in my head. After all, I will soon be entertaining a guest – and if I have it my way – two. Perhaps I could get rid of one of them? Elimination? Disposing? Eradicating? All synonyms of the same thing, really.

As they say, two's a party and three's a crowd.

I heard a mixture of a struggle and a drag echo across the room. It wasn't too loud, but I could clearly understand the slurred murmurs and the brisk replies to those words all too easily.

Peeking around the corner, I caught the image I have been waiting for. The perfect sight that will cause my entire game to unfold into a spiraled mess that not even the infamous detective could decipher.

At the front of the pool, stumbling might I add, was Sherlock Holmes. Behind him, was the man I assumed to be our hired individual, although he looked a tad worse for wear. That's a shame. I thought I told him to be of his best attire and presentation. Oh well. I was going to get rid of him anyway. He was a bit, oh how do you say it? He was a little too ordinary for my tastes.

What a shame. I thought I taught him better.

"Wh... Where have you taken me?" Sherlock huffed lowly, but the empty reflective walls muffled nothing.

I wanted to waltz out and whisper behind those curly locks tucked under his ear, but I refrained just barely. Of course each stupid and blatantly cliché question he asked only made the offer ever more tempting.

"I have no right to say anything, detective. I was just told to bring you."

I grimaced. Boring, dull. That was too monotone a voice. I could have done better. So much better.

But I was always better at theatrics. Nobody else can have the same flare as I do.

"Who?" The detective asked hoarsely, though his movements were slowly improving to a sloppy stand, "Who told you to bring me here?"

_Alllllllmost! So close! Come on. Say it. Say it!_

"Your benefactor?" He hissed, leaning on the wall.

_Say it. Say my name. Just two words. Two little itty bitty words!_

"Jim Moriarty?!" he challenged.

_Show time!_

"I gave you my number," I cried, sauntering out of my dark corner, "I thought you might call!"

Oh that look! That passion and underlying hatred in his eyes. Oh how it makes me swoon. Too bad that glaring doesn't aid in anything except proving you are more useless than you already are? Poor elusive, stupid detective. Poor thing.

It will only make the burning so much better.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the driver we hired fall to the shadows. He was letting me take the spotlight like I ordered.

Now, where was I?

"Nothing to say?" I provoked with a smirk, nearing him. He took a step back but his foot slipped and with a curse, he slid down the wall with a grumble or two. Giggling at his obvious disorientation, I stopped at a foot away, bending over so my face was only two feet away from his. I could feel every huff of breath he labored and his gaze warmed my face almost like he was burning me.

_As if. That is my job after all._

"Oh come on Sherlock," I cooed, "You were doing so well before. Don't get boring now!" I reached out to stroke his face but grinned when he moved away slightly.

"You were Jim. Molly's supposed infatuation."

I pursed my lips at his detour, "Ah, yes. I was, wasn't I? Jim from IT? Turns out she heard from a certain someone that I must be playing for the other side and broke it off," I shrugged, "Everyone's a critic and has even less reasonable ambitions. She was a nice girl, too nice really. It's amusing when you think she turned down someone like me, isn't it?"

He didn't say anything.

_How tedious _I think as I push against his shoulder to get into a standing position.

Those charming blue eyes of his followed me as I casually strolled in front of him, pacing. They were weary, cautious, and betrayed no other emotion besides those two. He was strictly composed to the finest tune. The king was holding his place but not calling for his queen. He didn't want to throw him into this. Oh, compassionate isn't he?

Completely useless.

Especially when I know Johnny boy is on his way. Saving his damsel, or should I say, detective in distress.

"So, Sherlock, as some fun and good times, care to guess who I am? Besides the obvious of course. What is my occupation?" I stopped and placed my hands in the pockets of my slacks, hooking the thumb in so the other fingers hung loosely outside.

Sherlock said nothing but I saw his eyes go over me, seeing things like I was a puzzle. It was very intriguing. I would just love to pick that mind of his apart. Imagine the clockwork and gears I would be able to watch do their magic! Even his gaze was almost enough to make me do just that.

I heard him chuckle as he fixed his posture. A second later, he stood, standing away from the wall. The confident smirk I dubbed him for was painted on once more.

But he said nothing. No deducing. That wasn't fair! How come the doctor gets all the wonders?

I got impatient. "I'll give you a hint. I'm a specialist. Just like you."

That made things click all too nicely. Ah, I love when things speed up. Now I get my taste of his word play.

"Dear Jim, please will you give me my minutes of fame. Dear Jim, please will you fix the men who still bully me now," he droned, fixing his posture gracefully.

I grinned, "Just so."

A glint fell into his eyes. I didn't miss it. It was all too familiar. All to noticeable. And all too knowing.

That little glint of curiosity. The spark of meeting a challenge. He finally recognized the chess board he accompanied. He was finally making his first move.

Now let the games begin.

"Consulting criminal," he mused, observing the waters reflection on his open skin, "Brilliant."

Pushing off my feet in a light skip, I neared him. He didn't flinch this time or move away. His previous weary features were now chiseled with a new emotion: dainty interest.

"Isn't it?" I purred. He met my eyes for a moment before his lips turned up. He took a step towards me.

"So what game are you playing, Moriarty? A little murder spree? Hostile urges?-"

"Boredom?" We both said in unison and that's when the opposite occurred. My lips spread into a predatory grin while his faltered to a thin line. By this point we were perhaps less than two feet apart, looking at each other as if measuring the guts of our opponent. Seeing who will finally cry out uncle and fall down dead and pale.

"You see, Sherly, I've been bored," I started, "Like you, but I don't look for cases. Actually, I suppose you could almost _thank_ me for the last few considering I was the one who set them in motion."

I waved my hand nonchalantly, "As I was saying, this world is so ordinary and monotone. Nothing of interest happens. Nobody ever gets to me. Nobody ever will. It's the same every day and I strive for that different note. That's where you come in."

"An opponent," he murmured, amused.

"As so," I replied, "But now you are too close. Now you are in Daddy's way and I've had enough of that."

He rose his brow at my title but made no move to regard it. I could faintly hear the doors open and close as somebody tried to sneak in. It was so quiet, but these walls resounded everything and every one. It was like a gigantic room of mirrors.

"What was your goal then if it wasn't for me to reach you?" His voice held suspicion and the hair of annoyance.

"Think. You are known for that. I'm sure you can deduce this little tidbit. It should be nothing for that spectacular mind of yours," I whispered, taking a step forward. I was glad when he didn't move away.

Our breaths mingled but I wasn't looking for a romantic interest. I was just playing with him. Testing his limits and boundaries.

That's when things changed to that very next step of our plan all too quickly. I didn't expect the ex-soldier to appear until later. Maybe 5 minutes but here he stood. His gun was pointed at me.

I smirked.

Oh really. Do you think I'm that disorganized?

Grabbing one of Sherlock's wrists, I twist him so his back was close to my chest. He began to fight back, but I jerked him to temporarily cause him to wince at the movement. It was enough of a distraction for the moment. With a swift kick to the back of the knees, I make Sherlock fall to the floor. He wasn't making any noises, sadly, but his eyes portrayed everything. He was hurting.

Too bad. I'm not done just yet. One final touch.

Then his precious doctor can kiss his boo boo's and injuries to make them all better.

Bringing my foot up, I stomp on Sherlock's ankle, smiling when the satisfied snap occurred. Now he can't get up and run away. Oh, he can fight all he wants but it's no use if he can't get out.

Best part, my hands didn't get dirtied.

I heard Sherlock hiss at the broken ankle I inflicted on him. What a shame. I expected at least a scream. Something to make that move all the more worthy.

John flinched at the crack that bounced off the walls in a nasty crunch.

"Did you enjoy that?" I asked with wide eyes.

"You're sick," he cried.

Placing my hands on Sherlock's head, I clenched my hands slowly in his hair and forced it up from its hanging stance. Sherlock put up small resistance, probably trying to lock away the pain in his ankle so he can think. Maybe thinking of his doctor that couldn't think straight. Who knows?

"Oh, you are too kind," I reply sweetly. Bending until I was beside Sherlock's face, I spoke softly, "Don't you think so too Sherly?" I took his head and forced it to nod to my question. "Good! I thought so as well."

John merely grimaced. His hands never wavered though. The trigger was still threatened to launch at any moment.

"But really, John. You call me sick and yet have you considered your past? Maybe I should list them off."

He glanced at Sherlock and then met my eyes once more, "You wouldn't.."

Oh this is rich. Perfect.

_Sherlock doesn't know._

"He doesn't know does he? What do you fear, _captain_?" he flinched at the title, "Do you fear he will leave you? Abandon you? Abuse you? What is it that sparks those memories to stay so hidden?" My eyes were wide, playing innocence with the utmost attention.

"You have no right," he growled.

I laughed loudly.

"I have no right?!" I yelled, narrowing me eyes with a grimace, "Please. Does it look like I care about what I am entitled to and not? I have no right to break Sherlock's ankle and yet here it is, broken. I have no right to abduct him, but yet I did. I have all the right I need, doctor. All of it. You want to know why?"

A cruel grin found it's way on my lips, "Because it is all mine. All of this. I stick my fingers in everybody's business. I know everyone and their secrets. I do have the right and the only right. Now, shall we list off all of your faults?" I chuckled darkly, "After all, flat mates should know the worst about each other, correct?"

I saw fear in those eyes. It was so painfully open. He didn't fear dying but he feared the voice of others on his past? I can see why Sherlock has chosen this man as his new pet.

Holding up my unoccupied hand, I counted off, "Being the cause for the death's of all the soldiers in your squadron, the death of a multiple innocent lives locally, incapable of being honest and trusting, lacking any true empathy, and lying to everyone you meet like it is second nature," I wigged my fingers at him. "And that's only one hand. Imagine if I had two."

John was ashen and rigid. His hands didn't shake even now, but he looked almost dead, like his hands would fall. His form was very sculpture like. I had created fear in him. I had brought his own worst nightmare to life. Having Sherlock find out of his past. It's funny really. His past isn't that awful compared to, oh let's say, mine? Nonetheless, I doubt he is thinking that right now.

He was pondering Sherlock's reaction. Now, I have no doubt that he will still save the detective. He is loyal, if anything. But he's going to avoid the man afterward just to keep out of talking about his past.

I was his personal Mephistopheles at the moment.

"You..." he uttered but it was so low I had to strain my ears to hear it.

"Before you go at me, how about we ask Sherlock what he thinks. I mean, I'm sure he can give his own coherent replies through the pain, right?"

Kneeling next to Sherlock, I watched his eyes open half-lidded, "John..."

John looked too afraid to speak.

His eyes flashed to his queen as a shaky smirk came on, "I would much rather speak of this later. Right now, he is just playing with you. He's playing with all of us. Don't let it stop you." Grinding his ankle under my heels, I saw him bite his tongue so hard it bled. Shouldn't have spoken the wrong thing then.

But the damage was done.

John seemed to debate his words while I sighed.

Well, that defeated the fun in this. I wanted a full out blow up between the two. Something to re-enact later with Sebby for the laughs. This is just boring and typical.

"Back away from Sherlock."

I brought my hands up with mock surprise, "Oh don't shoot me! I'm too young to die." Then I laughed. Amateurs really should stay at home and off the battle field.

Fishing out my phone in my pockets, I press the send button to the text I prepared before this whole ordeal began. Almost immediately afterward, bright red dots appeared on Sherlock's and John's forehead, neck, and heart. Looks like Sebastian found some help after all.

Letting Sherlock go, I walk away in time to hear Sherlock and John curse at the sniper pin points.

"I advise you lower the gun, Johnny boy," I sang out before stopping at the end of the pool. In a swift 180, I face the duo again.

It was a hallmark moment. John was at Sherlock's side, checking Sherlock and gently observing his ankle while Sherlock appeared to swat his hands away and argue. All look at the couple. Take a picture! Take one.

_It will last longer_.

That was one of his faults as well. Unable to cope with a relationship. Although, that could be said for the both of them. They were similar in that aspect.

I giggled to attract their attention, "He's sweet. I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touching and loyal. But oops! You've rather shown your hand their doctor Watson."

John grimaced, realizing his mistake.

"Too late now," I cried, "As you see, I have a few pets of my own trained to hunt down the smaller prey. The strays."

John was about to retort when I shushed him, "No. No. Stay boy. Quiet. I want to talk with your master. I'm not a very good dog whisperer," I smirk at his low string of curses.

"So!" I start, "Sherlock. As I was saying. Do you know that happens if you don't leave me alone? To you?"

With a grunt, Sherlock rose to a stand, leaning heavily on his doctor, "Oh let me guess. I get killed."

I purse me lips, "Kill you? Eh, no. Don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special." I sighed, imagining the scene wistfully before narrowing my eyes. I dropped my voice to a low murmur and let all happy facades fall, "No no no no. If you don't stop prying I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you."

"As if he has one for you to burn," the cabbie driver spoke softly.

Turning, I glared at him, having forgotten his presence entirely previously.

I did say I was going to get rid of him earlier, hadn't I?

"Oh Sebby!" I shout, "Please show these two what will happen if they don't abide, won't you dear?"

A shot was heard and the man crumpled to the ground, blood oozing out of a bullet wound in his head. It was music to my ears.

The two men in front of me didn't phase. That's disappointing.

"Now where were we?" I spoke.

"How I was apparently lacking a heart? I've been told that often," Sherlock muttered between harsh breaths.

I laughed, "Oh please. We both that isn't true." I switch my eyes to both of their attentive gazes, "For either of you actually."

I didn't aim for a change in their expression but I noticed the immediate hardening of their expressions as if hiding some unknown fear from the other. Precious. What's next? Should I ship them together or some absurd motive? Create fanart?

Goodness I could make fun of them forever.

Of course this moment had to be broken. And none other than by my cell phone that I forgot to put on mute. I _always_ forget something. Damn it.

_Ah, ah, ah ah, Stayin' Alive. Stayin' Alive.~_

I could feel the looks of confusion and closed my eyes. Sighing heavily, I opened them again and looked at Sherlock pointedly with the unsaid apology, "Do you mind if I answer that?"

"Oh no. Go ahead. Take all the time you need," he replied nonchalantly, earning a look from his doctor.

Turning around, I answered the phone and was pleasantly greeted by a woman's voice.

"Hello, Moriarty. Not to bother your events, I would advise you to not shoot the doctor or Sherlock. There is a slight problem and in doing so, you will jeopardize everything you have set so far, including your hunger for his end."

"What," I muttered, "And why not?" _And why did this mysterious woman sound so familiar?_

"Oh none other than it seems Sherlock is quite well guarded right now. Didn't you forget about his brother? Oh please, the man wouldn't leave his brother without protection and since a certain word began to fly around the all too friendly yard, it reached his ears quickly," she paused, "There are multiple men placed so if you were to fire, they will immediately kill you."

I didn't reply for a moment, "And what would you suppose I should do? I was hoping to leave something of remembrance for the both of them. A nick in the shoulders, a blow in the calf. And yet, you, of all people, are saying I should back off?"

"Yes. Unless you forfeit your game Moriarty and I know how you are about your games."

Growling, I ended the call and put it up.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

Brightening my expression, I turned around with a grin, "Not at all. It seems I am ever changeable. Our chat has to be cut short."

Peering at the rooftops, I give a small nod.

"I hope you don't go into depression from missing me. It would be such a shame if a suicide were to occur before I returned with my final act," I chuckled.

"As if we would miss you!" John hissed at me. Oh, feisty! For now anyways.

Another day, another time.

Another night to cause another crime~.

"Daddy has to say goodbye, but I do hope to meet you two soon. Perhaps, sooner than you think. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

With that, I walked out. I could hear the voices from the two after I left and was tempted to walk back, just for a scare. Too bad that I have things to get in order. Being a boss is so tiring sometimes.

"Sherlock? Are you okay? No don't look away and then wince in pain! You liar. Let me see it Sherlock. No not-! Damn it. You are worse than a bloody child!"

I smirked, loving the argument.

"John. I am fine. We really should be going after Moriarty. My ankle is nothing but a hindrance-"

"A hindrance? It's broken! You should be going to a hospital. Actually, there's an ambulance outside so let's go there instead."

"But-"

"No Sherlock. Health first. Chasing a bloody psychopath can wait for another time. I'm sure you will see him again anyways."

"He's so close-"

"And I would have to do all the running because you wouldn't be moving an inch off this tiled floor until I got back to tell you he was gone. Poof. Invisible."

I chuckled quietly as Sebastian walked down the stairs next to me. The pair's voices has driven off to silence and it was only my sniper and I now.

"They argue like an old married couple," he muttered, "I could hear them from the roof."

I shrugged.

"You're quiet. You are never quiet. What's wrong? Are you sick? Did you contract some ugly virus?"

Patting his shoulder, I shake my head, "No. Just thinking."

He gave me a look, "For you, thinking can only lead to misery and most of the time it's me doing it."

"With no complaint," I added.

He didn't say anything to that.

Sighing, I opened the door to the exit and flung my arms out, breathing in the non-chlorine air.

"Oh Sebby!" I cried once out of the pool area, "I could just sing right now with all this giddiness I'm feeling! The finale. It's so close."

"And what's stopping you? I don't like your singing much, if I have a say. Too... random."

I scoff, "It's beautiful mind you."

"No. It's not. Sounds like a cat that got ran over by a bloody cab."

"Then the cat must have come back to life with a kiss of an angel because that's exactly what my voice sounds like! I could put babies to sleep with my voice."

"Of course you have other ways," he mused.

I chuckled, "Ah, the more convenient method? I love when we are on the same page, dear."

Silence reigned in as we walked further and further from the pool and closer and closer to our nearly unrecognizable flat. I didn't mind it and skipped ahead of Sebastian, twirling every so often to keep from being bored. No car headlights swerved around the corner to hit me. I didn't expect any anyhow. We were in the more unconventional areas after all.

"Hey."

I turned, "Hm?"

Sebastian was giving me that look again. The expression that all but said I might have begun hanging with the wrong crowd. That I should be weary and cautious and the fact that I wasn't was beginning to throttle him.

"Who was that person who called you?"

Raising a brow, I shrugged, "Honestly? I haven't the slightest idea. She sounded familiar, something of my past encounters perhaps."

Sebastian sighed, probably annoyed enough to drop it.

I, on the other hand, couldn't stop thinking about her. She had that tone. The French accent that sounded so thick at times and nonexistent in others. Ah, what was her name?

Pursing my lips, I chew on my lip in contemplation.

Fria... something.

Abruptly, I gave up, too tired to really care at the moment. Besides, I'm sure she will show up eventually. It always happens with me. I attract the wrong attention but then use it to my adamant advantage. Piece of cake.

She will appear.

They always do.

* * *

><p><em>Ah yes. I love him. Perfect character. I probably failed at writing him. Sorry for that. This was a lot to write and when I finished the first time it was 3000 words and then I added more and it was 5000. Much better. I hope he isn't too OOC. ^^" I apologize greatly if he is.<em>

_I can't promise when the next chapter will be here. I'm sorry. I have been working on painting projects and have probably spent roughly 8 hours so far on the one I'm on now. I'll strive for at least a small filler chapter before school! I promise! Pinky swear actually._

_Ah... so. I know you guys are probably wondering about the murderer in the actual case. I did kill him. Don't worry, Sherlock will explain everything in the next chapter so I can tie that knot and have John make his blog._

_Oh... that would be fun. Writing John's blogs as a chapter. Interesting. Hm..._

_Later. Definitely later._

_Alright! So. Review. Favorite. Follow. Read._

_Ciao~_


	18. Chapter 18

_I honestly wrote this chapter yesterday. Definitely one of my quickest chapters to date. I apologize again. I got lazy. I didn't edit this thing at all. It is all just... there. I haven't checked anything nor have I added anything extra and profound. It is exactly as it was when I typed it. I think it's because I'm very tired as of late, but my next few may be much the same as this... no editing and all..._

_Okay. That's it for life with me. Here you will finally read about the Secret killer, well in deductions of Sherlock, and you will also hear a little about John's past. Sorry to say, the major part, the death of his men, won't be till next chapter because it's going to be one of those fascinating flash backs I love to write. _

_I'm sorry for any confusion. I must have been writing this until 3 or 4 in the morning going off tea and cookies. I honestly don't know how many mistakes is in this chapter and I apologize for any that you see. I'm a clutz really._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock_

* * *

><p>Chapter 18<p>

_**John POV**_

"John. He is so close. Just go across the street. You can even catch him," Sherlock half-complained and half-begged strenuously in my ear. It was almost as pathetic as watching a child beg for a toy he can't have. Except, this was a detective... kind of.

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" I challenged him as I gave a huff. For a skinny, tall man, he was heavy. I was immensely glad my ankle had healed almost completely because then I would be in trouble having to support this man's weight. "Besides, I want your ankle to get checked out. I know for a fact it is broken and if it is left untreated, then it will only get worse."

I averted my eyes to glance at him, a grin on my face despite the situation, "Trust me. I'm a doctor."

The detective rolled his eyes at my comment but I saw his lips raise in a defiant smile.

Once we reached outside the pool area, Lestrade was there immediately. He insisted on taking Sherlock but the man refused profusely, saying that it would hurt his ankle if he had to adjust to a different man. Nobody tried to remove him after that in fear of that happening. I, on the other hand, knew Sherlock was just being a prat and didn't want the medics at his side.

I remember him mentioning he never liked the medical crowd. Too... dull I think is what he says. It's odd really. If he wanted to find someone on his level of thinking, a scientist would do perfectly (as long as it wasn't an astronomer). They would be able to confess the annoyances and grievances of failed experiments and countless theories. Doctor's are just another type of scientists for the health of the common crowd. I don't see why he can't get along with them.

I don't see how he can get along with me.

"John," I blinked as I realized we were about at the ambulance. Lestrade was giving me this exasperated look. Did I space out? No doubt he was trying to get whatever happened at the pool out of me.

The EMT personnel gingerly removed Sherlock's hands from around my shoulder and guided him to the tail of the vehicle. He looked annoyed as somebody tossed an orange blanket on his shoulders as they checked him for any injuries besides the obvious.

He was definitely not amused with their prodding and constant questions. Well, that's what he gets for running off like that.

I shook my head slowly, trying to decide whether Sherlock was or wasn't the most moronic and dumbest genius out there.

Lestrade tapped my shoulder. Oh, right.

Smiling apologetically, I gave my full attention to the detective, "Sorry Greg. What do you need?"

He chuckled, "Just a report on what the hell happened in there will do. Then you can go save those newbie medics before Sherlock rips them apart."

I joined his humor with a few laughs of my own, "Honestly? I have no idea what happened in there. Would you mind if maybe I sleep on it and come to the yard tomorrow? Need to gather my thoughts."

Lestrade patted my shoulder, "No problem mate. You've been through a lot. Just be sure not to forget. Sherlock tends to do that a lot. Don't want him rubbing bad habits on you."

_Yeah right, _I thought with light amusement _Like he can do that to me. If anything, it seems like I am putting a few good habits on him instead._

I mulled it over, _Or he's faking it and being a git._

"...-o you can just go to Sherlock now. He's been glaring daggers at you for a while," I caught the tail end of what Lestrade said but didn't bother asking the man to repeat. I was already being rude for blanking out so much.

I already know why. I've been putting it off, trying not to talk about it ever since I went to Sherlock's side. I was deliberately pushing it to the back of my mind because Moriarty was there and I knew if I thought of the possible consequences I would probably feint on accident. I was still trying to shroud it. Avoiding the impending conversation for as long as I could. That was what I was doing. Procrastinating the inevitable.

Sherlock didn't push it either which was odd, even for him. I don't know what I expected from him, but I thought he would maybe prepare a twenty-question questionnaire of some sort. But he didn't. He kept quiet and instead complained and whined over losing Moriarty. I knew he was curious. I saw the glimpse in his eyes, but then he put it away. Like he was being... considerate.

But that was impossible... right? He said it before and he would say it again if I offered the chance. He was a scientific machine, according to him, and a single ounce of compassion or good will was not possible for him.

I wanted to laugh at that right there. He wasn't a machine. Not at all. I mean, I could literally pull one of his countless quotes out of my head that would contradict that. Specifically one he said to me on a case in Wales. A murdered woman, a stolen diamond, a sneaky maid, and a nephew who just wanted the inheritance. In the end, it was the butler. It always is according to the man.

But that wasn't the quote. No, it was something more significant than that.

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

Therefore, using his logic, the little action of not killing me with question after question is not as alien as it may seem. Just... different.

Nonetheless, I knew his 'consideration' could only go so far. He was a man of science and knowledge after all. Yes, he may have that moment of taking the account of others into his countless everyday equations, but it will eventually be incomplete without some prodding. He lived off facts and deducing them out of people was the best way.

And considering what Moriarty shared, he was going to have quite a bit to deduce from me. More than I would care to share. Moriarty has placed a hurdle in my lack of trusting others that I would have to jump over to continue my days with Sherlock.

I didn't know if I could complete it.

But there was only one way to find out, I suppose.

"John? Are you alright? Maybe the medics should check you out as well. Just in case."

I waved him off with a "No, I'm fine. I promise" and made my way to Sherlock. Each step seemed to make the pleading in his eyes grow. He wanted the newbies off of him. He probably wanted that ridiculously bright orange blanket off as well. It made him stick out like a sore thumb.

Leaning against the tail next to Sherlock, I dismissed the medics with a look. They didn't argue and went instead to help the others retrieve the dead body of our supposed secret killer.

"So."

Sherlock changed his expression from annoyance at his ankle to curiosity at me, "Hm?"

"The murder."

"Which murder?"

"_The_ murder, Sherlock."

"_Which _murder, John? I have done many."

I gave him a look and I saw the light bulb above his head flash. Thank you professor genius.

"Oh! The secret killer, correct? You're wondering how I found out it was him. I can tell you want to ask me a lot of things actually. The note I got earlier no doubt. Why I came here without you as well. A lot of questions, but you can either wait until we get back to the flat or you can have me explain one, and I mean one, right now."

"Actually," Lestrade interrupted and I flicked my gaze over to him in surprise. I didn't see him follow me. When had he arrived? "I can help choose which one. Preferably the one on the secret murderer. Since he was murdered, we can't get a confession out of him. You are the only witness that would have the only reasonable remark on why he did it." Lestrade passed an apologetic look and I shrugged. I didn't mind. He was doing his job and I can respect that.

Sparing an irked expression at the intruding detective inspector, Sherlock took a deep breath before explaining the murder as quickly as he could.

"When we arrived at the scene, I took not of multiple aspects immediately, that your crowd would have normally missed. Things like it not being a suicide and the fact that he seemed very partial to bright coloured clothing. On top of that, I took note that he must have been drugged by some sort of influence, whether the normal drugs in the market or the ones you would have to obtain at a specific source. But one thing was missing as well. One that was odd for a man coming back from a college. The suit case. Gone. You saw it but your brain must have missed it.

"Anyhow, I found the case. Confirmed he had not been drugged, by poisoned. Common, household, boring cyanide. Quick killer. The murderer came after the death while the parents were gone to finish the job by shooting him and placing it in his hand. Easy.

"As for relations or motive or whatever it is you call it, according to a source of mine all the victims were bullies of the murderer's past. Picked on him and then later ruined his life. He has no family, wife left him from what I gathered before he died. No kids. He had nothing to lose and therefore wanted revenge. Now, that's a very lethal motive. Almost as reckless as love."

"But how did he find out their secrets?" Lestrade questioned after he wrote most of what Sherlock said into his notepad.

_Or mine for that matter_ I added silently.

"Did you not notice the cab around the corner? Of course not. You're idiots. He is a cab driver. He particularly found every man at a moment they would need a cab and might have changed his voice to ask little questions. Nobody would know he was the driver. Who pays attention to the driver when you get into a cab? They are unnoticed and very inconspicuous. It's a shroud that he took advantage of. Also, I did mention he got bullied, correct? More than likely a school background. You hear all kinds of things at schools. Rumors. Lies. The occasional truth. That's probably where he got most of the secrets if not from personal experience."

Sherlock stopped for a moment, thinking over his next words before speaking them slowly, "He was ordered by his benefactor. Moriarty. That's who was there with us before we walked out."

Lestrade looked about to yell at his men but Sherlock interrupted, "No point searching for him. He's gone. We'll have to wait."

The inspector groaned and I nodded sympathetically. He probably thought he would be able to catch the man this time. At first I thought the same but after meeting the man at first hand (not counting my abduction), I was having doubts. The yard, no matter how much I may believe in Lestrade, wouldn't be able to catch him. He was clever. If anybody were to match that cleverness and trickery, it would be Sherlock. He's the only one who could catch him at this point.

And I think Lestrade also came to that conclusion when he flipped his notebook shut and walked away. I hoped the man would get some sleep. He deserved it at this point.

I nudged Sherlock lightly, "So did Lestrade steal my question away?"

He thought it over before returning the motion, "I would say so. I did, after all, answer _two_ of your questions. The note and the murderer. I say you can wait for the last."

Watching Sherlock slide down the tail onto the ground gently, I offered my shoulder and watched his pride fall as he conceded. His ankle was bandaged for the moment (quite sloppily might I add) but it looked a little better. Peaks of blue, black, green, and purple were showing over and under the bandages. At least it wasn't a open broken bone. It didn't break skin. He was lucky for that one otherwise his situation would have been worse.

"Shall we?" I motioned through the crowd and Sherlock nodded briskly, obviously in some discomfort from placing any weight on his ankle.

"Yes. Oh, one more thing," with a shrug, he tossed the orange blanket to the ground and gave a thick sigh of relief.

I rose a brow, "Better?"

A small smile adorned his face for a moment, "Yes. Very."

When we arrived at the flat, Sherlock pulled the jacket off and unraveled his scarf. He gingerly placed them on the hooks besides the door before hobbling his way over to the sofa. I followed slowly, sensing a different mood than before; one for the thirst of knowledge that would undoubtedly be emanating from Sherlock Holmes.

Shutting the door, I joined the detective and sat in my arm chair. Sherlock was already in his infamous thinking pose, watching me over those long fingers of his.

"I want you to answer-"

"Wait!" Sherlock interrupted, placing his index finger out to quiet me, "Now this isn't far."

I sighed, "What is not fair?"

"You have asked me three questions, two already answered might I add, and I have asked you none. I want a little bit of a compromise. Just to even out the field at the moment." He spoke of it almost like it was business. Like he was trying to make a sale of a flat or something.

But I knew what his "compromise" would consist of. It was painfully obvious. I didn't indulge much into it or mention it out loud. Better to stay ignorant.

"And what is your compromise?" I spoke, crossing my arms. Better to act like I don't know what he is talking about. Play the annoyed companion at the moment. Maybe it will be different.

_Pfft. I highly doubt it_ I thought _It is Sherlock bloody Holmes._

He held up three fingers and wiggled them slightly, watching my expression, "Since you wanted three questions, I want to ask three in return. Three. No more. No less."

I couldn't help it. My mind jumped to conclusions before I could catch it and my expression changed to being weary. Sherlock didn't miss the change.

"Oh come on, John. I'm actually being considerate with narrowing it down to three. In all actuality, I have thought of a total of fifty-three questions to ask. It's a stretch considering what I heard tonight," he spoke exasperatedly, throwing his hands up in the process.

"It would be too considerate to ask if you would drop it, wouldn't it?" I muttered, looking at the window. It was suddenly much more interesting than the tired looks the detective was giving me.

"Yes, quite," he sighed before moving back to his thinking pose, "But it would also be incredibly heartless to ignore those as well. It's clear those memories Moriarty mentioned have wrecked your life. If I were to ignore it and go on with our daily lives, I have a feeling I would be leaving you a ticking time bomb. It would eventually kill you. It already is."

Ripping my eyes away from the sepia glimmer outside, I meet Sherlock's gaze before letting it falter.

"Very well," I murmur lowly, "Fine. I'll answer your damn three questions."

I expected Sherlock to get all excited and throw them all at me at once, but instead he just sat there solemnly. His expression didn't change nor did any limb. If anything, it looked as if he decided to place a poker face on. It fit the mood because I could feel my hands clench and release in a arrhythmical pattern.

"Go on then. Ask your first question." I leaned back into the arm chair, trying to keep the shakes I felt as subtle and unnoticeable as possible. If they showed, Sherlock didn't mention it.

"The first one isn't that hard. It's a simple one," he narrowed his eyes. "Why are you so unwilling to trust others easily?"

I laughed humorlessly, "You said it would be simple. That's far from it..." I hesitated. "But it's one of your questions so I'll answer it."

Looking at the cold fireplace, I could feel the phantom pains in my shoulder begin to grow, "It was the effects of what happened in Afghanistan. The event that sent me home. One of my fellow captains, the only one who was... with me at the time and saw everything, placed the blame on me. He was a higher rank than I was and since he was there longer and was known to be honorable and honest, nobody thought a second into it."

My voice got bitter, "I remember feeling betrayal. He was one of my best mates and I trusted him with my life and without batting a lash, he threw me at the dogs. What topped it off was the trial we had. It wasn't official, not here on the Queen's grounds. But in our tent of all the higher ranked men, it might have well have been the real thing. They judged my character, my skills, my experience. Those were the only good points out of that. Then the man, the only man who survived that, came up and looked me straight in the eye. He looked me in the eye and said that I had done it. I killed those men and I looked like I enjoyed it.

"Any trust I had after that, went out the window. Every man in that tent believed him like the rest and looked upon me in disgust. They called me an animal, a murderer, a lot of things. Since I was a soldier, a captain, and a doctor, the words didn't affect me like they should. It was just more titles."

I paused for a moment, "To be truthful, every soldier can be called a murderer. Every man on those front lines can be labeled a hero by their branded country, can be given a flag at their death, and can be serviced with gratitude. Every man can have that from their home country. But the second you think of the other side, those men who have won wars and battled with their pride and lives on their sleeves, they are nothing but murderers. Murderers and animals who are defending their grounds from the opposite force. Not the enemy. Just another force who wants the same thing. Yes, they killed a soldier on the opposite side, but that soldier they just killed was a man trying for the same exact fucking thing.

"So, the fact that they named me a monster and a murderer is hypocritical. Quite. But I wasn't going to say that to them. I let the tsunami come and wash away my honors. They gave me half a hour to pack and then sent me off without anything."

I stopped for a moment, trying to see how Sherlock was taking it. He looked calm and collective, but I could notice the faint things nobody else would see. The furrow in his brow. The shallow grimace. The slow curl of the fingers that would result in a fist. He didn't look disgusted with me. He looked disgusted for the men who acted that way to me.

Coughing a little, I concluded the answer, "But that's why I don't trust people easily. The last time I did that they brushed it off. It may make me look like a fool to base everyone else off the deeds of one man, but it was all the trust I could manage. I trusted him with my life as well as the rest of my men who couldn't stand up for me. That man... he just tossed it aside. It was nothing to him. That's the reason I don't trust people."

Sherlock looked like he was thinking. At least, he wasn't looking at me anymore. His vision was on me, but it wasn't on me if that made any sense. He was somewhere else. Probably trying to visualize the events somehow with the bare minimal details I managed to give.

I myself could feel the effects of me speaking that man's encounter again. A newly created wave of exhausted anger, betrayal, and sadness washed over me. It always happened when I thought of those events. It was this reason I didn't speak of it or think of it often. Mainly because of the pitying expressions people with express if they caught me in such a state. Partially because it sparked curiosity.

The type that led to situations like now.

Sherlock nodded slowly, as if confirming he got everything, "So it was a past event like I predicted. Second question." He looked up at me questioningly, "Are you ready or do you need to gather yourself a little more?"

I was taken aback from his almost concerned tone but shook my head softly, "No. Go ahead. Might as well get this over with as soon as possible. The sooner the better."

Thinning his lips, he let out a quiet sigh, "Alright. Then why did Moriarty say you caused the death of many innocent lives? I don't believe you did that but-"

"No," I interrupted, "I did. I did kill many innocents. Just by meeting them."

Sherlock remained quiet, waiting for a more detailed reason. I couldn't express every one I interacted with. That would be too long. But I can mention the major ones. Those I treasure to this day more than the others. That's... only two people to be honest. Three if you count the little boy.

"Remember the day you found me? You probably didn't detect it, but usually a homeless individual would attempt to suck up to a person who took interest for a few pounds. It's how we all made a living. Trying to get on the good side no matter what it took. Just for some grub or a pint to drown out the sorrows. But me? You saw how I didn't do that to you. It was because the last few people I did that to just ended up in loss and death. I didn't want you to follow the same path. I didn't want more blood on my hands.

"But that's a conversation for another day. You wanted to know about those I killed. It has happened multiple times, but I'm only going to mention three. Only because those three were the most special and important to me. The others... again. Another conversation another day."

I took a deep breath, sadness entering my eyes but I didn't look at Sherlock, "The first was Arthur. When I got back from Afghanistan, I was nothing. My family didn't want me. Nobody would house a traitor as they called it. So, I took to the streets. I was on the brink of probably starvation when a man found me. At the time, he was just another bloke on the streets but he helped me. He was the one who got me on my feet, looked at my guitar, and told me what I could do. He told me that if I was dying, I was giving up. I wasn't trying hard enough. If I wanted to overcome this, I had to keep moving and keep living. It was a quote he would say a lot when I just wanted to stop.

"But... I couldn't do the one thing I was good at to help him. I was a doctor. Still was. I mean, you don't forget those things you learn. They stay with you forever. But he was a walking dead man, Arthur was. He was dying of tuberculosis. Normally, they have a vaccine for that, but he never got it when he was little and it was too late now with it developing. I couldn't do anything but watch him. Watch him fall. I can't explain in words what it was like saying goodbye to a man who told me dying was giving up."

Tears didn't fall in the last question, but one trickled down my cheek now, "You want to know the last thing he asked me to do? He told me to play a song for him. He told me to sing him to death. It was awful. But I didn't want to deny him his final wish. That was cruel and heartless. So I sang to him. And when he died, I left. I gave one last goodbye, and left with whatever he had for me. Even after dying, he helped me for the next few weeks. Because secretly he created a little pouch of pounds for me. Cans of food. Some bags of produce. I didn't know him long and yet he was so willing to give all of that to me. And I couldn't even save his life."

I gave a shuddering breath, ignoring the tears, "The other two were related. Alina Brooks and her son. I forgot his name and I feel awful for it. They didn't save me once, but twice. The first time, was on the streets. I wasn't finding attention but it found me. They wanted a song so I played it. Alina, the mother, gave me her address so if I need help I can go to her. Well, eventually I did. Not of my own accord nor of my own mindset. Between running from a bloody sex-craving woman and a man who drugged me, I was almost delirious. Alas, I fell onto their doorstep on accident and they saved me from dying of the cold.

"When I woke up, I helped a lot to try and pay off my debt with them. I planned on leaving that night before anything can happen to them with me being there. That's what I wanted to do in the first place. Leave. But Alina," I gave a sad smile, "She was a determined woman. She wouldn't let me move without promising to eat a meal and stay the night. So I did that. I helped around the house and after putting her son to bed... everything just went to hell."

I titled my head down to stare at my lap, a few tears lingering on my jaw, "I've seen death so many times. That's the curse of being a soldier and a doctor. I have seen people beg for their lives and, in contrast, beg otherwise. I have set eyes on countless graves and endless funerals. With all this said, their deaths... it shouldn't have affected me as much as it has. A bomb went off. I'm not sure who planted it but I knew it was for me. The roof caved and crashed upon Alina. I could have helped her but she ordered me to get her son. The house was in flames. I only had a small window to get her son before the roof caved on the stairs. So I got him and exited. I didn't save Alina and her son... he was a wreck. He was just old enough to understand his mother was gone. That she wasn't following us.

"I didn't know what to do with him. I couldn't keep him. I had no home and no steady income. So I placed him in an orphanage. A few weeks later I came to visit him, but I found out he had passed. Pneumonia. So in the end. I was the death of both of their lives. I killed them."

My eyes stayed fixed on my lap. I felt ashamed. Not because I told my story, but because of what it was of. The only reasonable reaction would be anger and disgust. That was what I expected if not my dismissal as a flatmate.

"John."

I closed my eyes.

"Look at me."

Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes and looked at Sherlock. For the second time, he surprised me. He didn't look at all like I pictured. His eyes were trained on me, looking at me, but they didn't seem to hide emotion very well. I could catch twinges of every emotion I didn't expect from this confession. Concern. Worry. Sadness. Understanding.

He narrowed his eyes briefly, as if trying to think over his words before saying them, "John. You say you killed innocent lives, but that contradicts what you said after that. You said you failed to _save_ them. That is not the same thing. Saving people means you tried to help them after the infliction and couldn't do it. That is not the same thing as killing. Killing refers you to performing the casualty, and you didn't. You just caught the pieces, the ending of it. You couldn't have done anything."

"But," I paused briefly, "No. I killed them. That is-"

"The only reasonable explanation you can think of, yes. You think it is the only right choice in all that you have experienced. But no, it is the wrong conclusion. All wrong. Clearly you take the blame for all of these deaths, but you yourself didn't cause them. Perhaps it was the mixture of losing trust and then losing countless others. Perhaps it was your family. Whatever the case, something spurred you to believe all of these were your fault."

I didn't bother enlightening him with saying it was the abduction and the countless inflictions of Moriarty's hit man. That he was what caused my mind to change so drastically. No, I kept quiet and let him ramble on about all the possibilities as to why he thinks I believe their deaths are by my hands. At least I wasn't the one talking anymore.

He was about to mention his third question when I held up a hand, "no. We are not doing three questions in a row. Don't you think you can get away with that. No, I want my answer first. Then you can have yours." _I have a feeling I know what it is either way._

Sherlock sunk into the cushions, displeased obviously. I smirked a little despite my slightly reddened face from crying. I was pushing it to the back of my mind. For now. I can wait until I get to my room. In the meantime, I'll just try and mask it with my usual stunts.

"Oh, yes, what was it again? You wanted to know why I left you at the restaurant, correct?"

I nodded, leaning on my knees, "Yeah. You just looked at me with this odd expression and then said I was to stay. It doesn't make sense."

He chewed his lips, "Oh please. It's common knowledge to leave the back up at the restaurant. I mean, if I were to get in trouble, in which I did, you had to come get me. Further on-"

"Oh stop it," I chuckled, catching on to him trying to throw me off, "Tell me the truth. Your fancy deductions are just making you look like your avoiding the question."

Eying me with a risen brow and a smirk, he let out a low murmur, "Is it too off from my normal demeanor to say that it mattered to me if you got hurt?"

"Oh?" I replied, surprised.

The response seemed to set off another round of rambles that I didn't originally plan to come from the detective's mouth, "At the restaurant, and the lab, and everywhere else. This emotion distracts me and I don't have the slightest idea what it could be. You said before it was caring but that even seems wrong. At the restaurant for instance. I was supposed to be concentrating on the streets for the cabbie, but instead I couldn't because of something else. It wasn't my usual distractions of wondering what experiments to perform or how long it would take Mrs. Hudson to realize I had shot more holes in her walls. It wasn't any of that. It was different. Foreign."

I watched him as he scratched behind his neck in frustration, "I was thinking about you and what your place would be in this plan I had. Originally, I had planned for you to follow me out there and somehow scare the lad out of the driver's seat, but no. As I stood to go after that man, for some reason I didn't want you to follow me. I wanted you to stay there, hidden. Unnoticed. Safe. I didn't understand it. Why would I want to keep you safe and protected so fiercely? It's odd and I have never experienced such an emotion."

He sighed, rubbing his mouth slightly before clapping his hands and placing them on his lap, "So that's why I didn't want you with me. Be it as it may, I wanted you to be safe. The emotion? I don't know what it is. Don't want to know what it is. But you, John Watson, are the cause of it all."

After that his brows furrowed. He was probably trying to still figure it out. Wouldn't be the first time he was stumped. Wouldn't be the first time he came to me for some sort of advice although this time I kind of fished it out of him instead of waiting.

I had suspicions as to what he was feeling, but that's it. At the mere thought of it, however, I faltered and felt my face redden. No. Not him. He's just confused. It's probably friendship. Yeah, that's it. Friendship. Definitely.

"John."

I flinched and looked at Sherlock. The furrow was gone and replaced with curiosity. This time, it was burning like a hearth in his eyes. The final question. The one I would rather not speak of at all.

"It's your turn."

* * *

><p><em>Right. So, I had a lot of possibilities as to how I could have executed his final question. I'm sure you all know what it's going to be. The one of how his men died in that blast. You will also find out a little bit about Moriarty's involvement in John's past because it isn't sprinkled. He did play a big part in destroying the doctor's past.<em>

_I feel that if he were to just answer it like normal, it would defeat the purpose. You would not get any details. No emotion. He would keep it brisk and very very vague. Therefore, it will be in a flashback form. At least with that you will see what happens as it happens and nothing will be spared. As a bonus, I'll strip my lazy intentions and actually make it half-way decent in my standards._

_Oh boy. Sherlock. John has the suspicions that he feels love or friendship now. Although, he is not sure which. It's progressing! I said it would! Keep in mind I also said John won't think of love until his past is revealed. Which is the next chapter._

_For your information, I will not cut this off after they say the "I love you" things. Mostly, because I love love love unhappy endings. Well, at least unhappy cliffhangers. _

_Alright. There. Chapter 18. No idea when the next will be posted but hopefully soon._

_Review. Follow. Read. Favorite. Whatever you choose._

_Ciao~_


	19. Chapter 19

_So! Look at this. A flashback like I promised. This chapter is one of the longest chapters I have written. About 10000 words more or less. You finally get to see John's past._

_It's not pretty might I add, but you get to learn quite a bit on John. Quite a bit on Moran. Quite a bit in general._

_I will have to say that after this chapter, I might not upload another until the first day of my Junior year in high school. I say might because inspiration may appear in a blink of an eye and three chapters will be done._

_Well, read on and enjoy._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock._

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 19<em>

_**John POV -flashback**__-_

"_Come on ma'am. You might want to get up. I think the sun is about to shine on your beautiful skin and a sun burn would not do for you."_

_Ma'am? Beautiful skin? Somebody was asking for another fifty laps to run. Perhaps a hundred. I don't know. Depends on my mood and if the greenie meant it or lost a bet to it. I was more lenient than I should be when it came to matters like that; probably because I was them once. God that made me feel old._

_Well, either way, somebody was going to be running. All I would have to do is dub it has training, which would be correct. They shouldn't be keeping too much fat on them. It makes running and stealth difficult and I could easily name a few men who need it more than others. Although, they were also the best ones on the squadron, so I don't hold it against them._

_The big shots were the problem. They thought that because they held a perfect physique in the tests that they didn't have to do anything. Pretty boys if you ask me. A week with me and they found out that that wasn't the case here. They couldn't charm their way out of running (if anything, I made them run more for trying that tactic). It didn't matter to me what their standards were at home and it certainly didn't matter to me if their mum or father is some big shot that could sue me, god forbid, for the tactics used that are enforced throughout all the other military ranks as well._

_Bloody annoyances. If you ask me, I would send them all running and join them. I don't mind the morning jog. I have to keep good form after all. Trim off a few more unnecessary pounds won't hurt in that fact._

_That still didn't change that I enjoyed what sleep I could get. Evidently, this made me the worst captain to wake up in the wee hours of the morning when rescues or captures were to be made. I have heard numerous – I really should just say countless – nicknames for this habit. A few I let slip because I will admit they make me sound a lot cooler than I should sound. Some I ignore. Others I punish the person who spread it along with those who used it._

_Let's just say the nicknames have fallen to a minimal along with the greenies wanting to actually wake me up._

_So, with that all said and done, I didn't have a clue who had the guts to wake me up now. Was it Moran? He was the only one I can think of at the moment. I mean, how could you not forget that captain? In artillery and bombs, he was the best. His physique was perfect and he was definitely a role model. I was better than him at most of those, but just barely._

_But why would he be waking me up? I mean, somebody must have woken him up because he's even worse than I am. Much worse. I'm practically a hobbit to his dragon if you want a relation._

"_Come on, Watson. You should probably get up. We have a long day ahead and I need someone to scare them into actually listening to me." The voice was very bored and sounded as exhausted as I felt. Ah, great. Now I felt guilty._

_But at the same time I didn't want to leave my dream. It was like one of those once in a lifetime dreams that you know you will never get again. A needle in a haystack. A single grain of sand along an endless beach. I was reluctant to leave it, but it was my stupid dream's fault for producing it at a time that I had a mission. Why couldn't anything good happen to me for once? That would be lovely._

_Hiding my face from the flashlight the same individual was shining, I tried to catch onto my dream with desperate hands. Of course, it was too late. I was already being retrieved from the world of my past and wants. Damn it. Might as well get up before the man uses something more drastic to wake me. The last thing I need is a soggy uniform because they decided to use a water bottle on me._

_Wouldn't be the first time that happened. I definitely don't want it to occur again._

_Somebody was nudging me. The scene of England and my Mum wavered. The tea I was drinking at the dining room table shimmered to nothing as well as the entire dream. I was in a sea of black. My dreams were over and now I had to go back to reality._

_Even if I despised reality. Even if I would rather sleep in an eternal slumber with my mum and her awful cooking and beautiful sing-song voice. Ha, listen to me. I'm like a man who wants to savor one last drop of water in a desert. I know it's useless because within a second that drop will be absorbed and I will want more. More, more, more. That's always how it is. Wanting things you can't have often because it's physically or mentally impossible._

_Like, for instance, sleep._

_Groaning, I turned my tired glare on the greenie although he didn't flinch. Who was this man and who did he replace? Every greenie flinched at my glares._

_Actually, now that I have scrutinized his uniform and face, it wasn't one of the new greenies. No, it was a captain. One of them anyways._

_Unlike most teams, we have three captains. It's only because the group is so large that one, even a short angry one like me, can't keep tabs on. Those three were McCoy, Moran, and myself. All trained and adapted to blood splatter and death. It's what allowed us to train these men for their future missions with other envoys. After all, this was their final test before they go into SAS or become higher ranked individuals to yell at the newbies, like myself. After this, they get to go home with being able to pass a bloody exam that is, in my opinion, too easy and then they come back after a week._

_Except I won't be seeing them. I'll have my new batch by then. Lovely._

_As my mind thought of this, the man's face slowly became less of a poor-created movie and more like a person. It was one of the captains, but not Moran._

_McCoy. Right. Only that bloke would have the guts to call me a ma'am. Besides Captain Moran anyhow. It was a little joke we men have since we were in the same class at the time. You know, the usual jabs. Pretty boy. Ma'am. Captain obvious. It goes on but it's to keep the mood light. Always did really._

_I pushed myself off the makeshift cot and stood. Vertigo came and went and I placed my hand on the bed to steady myself. Dusting my uniform, I give a yawn and rub the crust out of my eyes. I was still tired but that was the usual around here. My body still hadn't caught up to that fact and I have been here for a while now. I was still waiting for that day that I could jump off this bed with all the energy I can muster and my gun half-cocked to shoot._

_Still hadn't come yet. Pain in the arse._

_Stretching, I closed my eyes briefly before flicking them over the amused captain's face, "What's so funny, McCoy?" I sounded serious but a smile betrayed me with showing itself._

_The man smirked and rose his voice an octave, "Oh, Harry! Don't take away my guitar! That's mine."_

_Flushing, I smacked the captain upside the head, "Oh shut it. You have had so much worse, McCoy and you know it. May I remind you of that broad you chased before? Fiona or something?"_

_He whistled, "And a fine woman she was too. Definitely worth whatever ruckus I made. It was the best dream in ages, mate."_

"_Yeah, the greenies are still scared to touch the cot you know."_

"_It's not my fault. They have heard the stories I'm sure. They should have known better."_

_I laughed and shook my head at his childish excuses. He never learned that one. He was older than me and still chased the girls like he was still fresh in his teens. Never understood the man, but it's a nice humor in the group. Besides, he kept me from wanting to personally shoot every complaining kid in the knee cap. And then afterward kick him a few times._

_Ugh, I was never this annoyed before. I used to like the blokes that came through here, but now something had changed. They didn't even complain that much either. I had gotten that out of their systems real quick when they landed on my doorstep. Sure they had the usual jab or a little joke to pass, but that was it. It was the same and their muttering were definitely not silent either. I was the same so being annoyed of that was practically hypocritical._

_Must be the-_

_Nope. Not going to say it. It's not my age getting to me._

"_So, how close are we to the destination?" I spoke, the amusement leaving in the topic of choice._

"_Not too far although," he dropped his voice to a low murmur, "I have been informed the men where our cargo is at may be arsonists. Our cargo is quite flammable so we will have to tread carefully."_

_I nodded, "Do they know we are coming?"_

_McCoy faltered and I stopped, looking him in the eye, "What is it?"_

_The older captain paused before whispering, "This is too easy if you ask me. I believe they are informed although no moves have been made. It's almost like they have a source."_

_I rose a brow skeptically at McCoy. This was a first for him. He is normally the happy-go-lucky captain who wishes for an easy mission often. It was always complained somewhere along our treks. But no, he looked dead serious right now. This meant he was actually considering it. A traitor? In our ranks? It's not entirely impossible, but it is unlikely._

_Last time we had a traitor was years ago and we quickly picked him out of the group. That was an off-mission entirely though. Completely weird._

_Because when we ordered him to the tent, he had that grin and a dangerous glint in his eyes as if he knew he was caught. And he did. I was the one to send him home in that case but we lost what happened to him after he got off the ship. All we heard was that the guards were knocked unconscious or dead._

_What stuck with me from that day was the shit-eating grin he directed straight at me. It was like he was giving me a promise. A promise of misery. It wasn't directed at any of the other captains in the vicinity. Only myself. I remembered feeling that it was like he saw a target on my chest and made a vow to be the one to make a bulls-eye._

_You don't exactly forget the name of the man that gives you those eyes of glee._

_Richard Brooks._

_But he was gone. Ever since then, we haven't had a traitor alert in years. I mean, I suppose I expected one because it is the world we live in, but I can't say I miss it. Having a traitor now when we have one of the largest teams to date at the moment would definitely be risking a lot._

_That being said, there isn't any evidence so it may just be superstition. Or so I hope._

_Narrowing my eyes, I responded lowly, "Do you have any personal picks? I'm not going to believe you without a substantial amount of proof, but I can try to keep an eye on them." Because you never know in this occupation._

_The captain nodded. He cleared his throat, eyeing the darkened tents full of sleeping greenies. Actually, his gaze fell on one. I already knew the name applied to the tent, because he was the only other captain besides McCoy and I._

"_I only have one. Captain Moran. I don't have proof, but he is rather... odd." He seemed to be trying to convey something to me, but I didn't catch it. I didn't know what he was trying to say. It was like he was attempting to tell me something important that I had to get right this instant._

_And I didn't._

"_And being odd makes him a possible traitor?" I scoffed, shaking my head in disbelief. If that was the case, I would have probably all of these greenies gone with how odd this bunch was. I have seen my fair share of addictions to last me a lifetime whether it was smelling people or something else. I have my own but they are not nearly as... interesting as the ones cadets bring nowadays._

_Ugh, age again. The eternal difference that everyone hates. Wait, that's too vague._

_The eternal difference that everyone __**should**_ _hate._

_The captain eyed me before laughing lowly, "Maybe you're right. I doubt he is the traitor. Besides all the men look up to him. It would be a shame to douse their hopes so early in being on the team, am I right?"_

_Looked up to him was an understatement. If a statue could be made in his honor, the kids would do it in a second. To be fair, it was hard to not like the guy. His humor was mediocre but his skills were exceptional. Maybe not as par as my own, but definitely just about. The men always tried to get on his good side but in the end they are made to look like kiss-ups or a complete arse by Moran. It made my life a little easier, to be blunt._

"_So, how do you plan to wake the princesses this morning? I personally don't want to switch sides and kiss them, but..."_

_I held up a finger, barely holding in the laughter I was feeling from his comment. He just smiled back and I shook my head. Only McCoy. I will never understand his good humor._

_We threw out random ideas for the kicks before settling down into serious murmurs._

"_But do you have an idea?" he whispered lowly. I knew that voice. Mischief._

_Of course, how could I miss the opportunity? It was perfect._

_I didn't reply and grabbed one of the pots and a metal spoon. Holding it up for my fellow captain to see, I waited for the light bulb to flicker above his head. Eventually it did and McCoy got the same idea. Sparing his stained, crooked smile in my direction, he dumped the canned meal from last night in the grass and fetched a spoon._

_McCoy made a few taps on the bottom of the pot with the spoon and I nodded. His grin only widened._

_After all, even us captains have to have our share of fun. We are not kill joys. And it's because of these sort of things that we never will. Maybe the men will learn to finally set some sort of internal alarm clock to wake them at the hours they have to be up at. I doubt it._

_"On three," I whispered, a mischievous grin on my lips. I perched myself next to one tent and McCoy did the same to the other. Three fingers. Two. One._

_I ran into the tent, banging the pots and spoon together like a drummer boy in a parade. I watched in a mixture of snickers and a pleased expression as they all jumped up at attention. Well, almost all of them anyways. One of them, the poor bloke, stood at attention briefly before falling to the cot again, snoring. All the others were either dazed or had their eyes closed in a half-asleep slumber, still mumbling words to whoever was in the dream with them._

_Kids. They never seem to learn do they? Not until you knock them on their arse a few times. And even then they won't understand a damn thing until their lives were placed on the line and a bullet flashes by them, grazing their skin._

_My smile fell at the thought of any of these young men experiencing that this early on. It wouldn't be uncommon for it to happen – wouldn't be the first either – but If I have it my way, that won't happen. This was just to rescue cargo. If it went according to plan, everything should go well and they will still be ignorant little brats. If not... well, I'll cross that bridge when I get there. Let's just say I will have to rely on improvisation, a quality you mainly pick up in the military._

_The men looked on the urge to passing out again, so I decided to get to the point._

_"Good morning sleeping beauties!" I shouted and watched in amusement as the previously passed out greenie on the cot rose with unsteady feet to hear my orders, "You are to be ready in a quarter hour. We don't have far to go and it's best to rely on the night to aid in the stealth part of the mission. No sound. No complaints. Whoever does complain will have to carry my packs as well as every bloody captain in this platoon."_

_All hushed grumbles and tired sighs stopped immediately. They knew I meant business. Every greenie here did. Good._

_When I turned around, Captain Moran was standing at the opening with a raised brow. If I hadn't been trained as well as I was, I might have jumped out of my skin at the sudden encounter, but I kept my ground. He looked amused. I didn't know if it was directed at me or if it was at the lacking energy in the greenies, but the corner of his mouth twitched every so often into a smirk as the seconds wore on._

"_Captain," I nodded and he did the same, moving so he was beside me as I walked. I kept in the back of my head that this was the same man that McCoy suspected to be a traitor, or at least somebody who's lips was looser than they should be. I didn't let my face falter nor anything else. I didn't have any proof to accuse this otherwise exceptional captain of this title and I wouldn't place it on anybody lightly._

"_So, relatively speaking, how far are we from the destination?" he asked the second we were out of the tents._

"_Roughly? Perhaps three hours at most." This was an estimate and I even exaggerated it on the belief that Moran might be the traitor McCoy dubbed him to possibly be. I didn't want to believe it, but I decided I would give McCoy the benefit of the doubt until the mission is completed. Just in case._

_Because I'm not going to risk the lives of these men recklessly because of my ignorance. I would never live it down if anything happened to them. Never._

"_Are you sure?" Moran was giving me that eye. The eye that stated he knew I was lying about something. I wanted to curse under my breath but that would be showing weakness. If I wanted to keep my falsely made answer as true as I can, I'm going to have to make it seem like I believe it to be true. Even if Moran already believes otherwise._

"_Yeah. Judging by the landscape and the exhaustion all the kids are feeling, I doubt we will get there in any less time. Although, you never know." A lie mixed in with a whole mess of truths. I didn't like lying to my own comrade but just in case. You never know._

_The fellow captain stared at me for a moment longer before nodding stiffly, "Then we should be on our way then?"_

_I chuckled, playing off the tense atmosphere that thickened the air around us, "Yeah. If you heard me, I gave the men a quarter of an hour to pack. Knowing them, we will probably have to give them an extra fifteen."_

_That cracked a smile and I felt like I had broken the ice a little, "Would you like to do the honors of yelling at them or me?"_

"_Probably you, Moran. I would love to witness you chewing them out. It's priceless."_

_Moran shook his head, "They never do learn, do they?"_

"_No," I agreed, "They don't. Now let's go check on them. I think the time is about up and I don't see anybody ready."_

_In the end, I got to watch in amusement as Moran yelled at all the men. I could just feel the dread in the air. They should have known better though. The military was not all fun and games. It never was. If they decided to pursue a career in this (What do you call an occupation surrounded by mainly shooting an opposite force?), they were going to have to drop habits that worked at home because they will more than likely not work here. Sleeping in would be one of them, although I still have a hard time losing that one. Then again, today was the only time I actually slept in longer than I should. Normally my internal clock is right on the dot. Must be the dream._

_Nonetheless, I grinned as Moran looked over at me, a crack of a smile on that otherwise stoic face of his. He was enjoying this. Might as well until they mature and you don't get to do it often._

_I sighed, not anticipating the next batch after this. Granted I get to go home for a week as well before coming back, I still didn't want to have to wash away the new habits and whatnot._

_McCoy leaned against the tent next to me, "When somebody sighs like that, it's either because they don't want the future to happen or they are officially done with the present."_

_I laughed, "Who are you and what have you done with the McCoy I know? He would never say something that wise."_

_McCoy mocked his offense, "Oh, I'm maimed. Really, Watson. I am not a complete immature adult. I have to say something to validate my age." But he laughed along with me for the moment as Moran chewed out the ashamed men._

_Shaking my head, I sighed. McCoy smirked and nudged me, "There's that sigh again."_

"_Oh sod off," I slapped him on the back before answering his assumptions, "No, I was just thinking about the new group we will have to deal with after this."_

_McCoy groaned, "Don't remind me. I just got used to this one. Literally. I am not looking forward to the next since I've heard it's mostly teenagers who seem to think the military is like Call of Duty with kill streaks and everything." At that we both burst into guffaws. Moran peered at us briefly in confusion along with a couple men but I just wave it off and he returned to the scolding._

"_Speaking of kids, do you think they have earned enough of Moran's wrath? They are practically giving me the puppy eyes to release them," McCoy nodded in the direction of a couple onlookers and I nod reluctantly._

"_Yeah. If we didn't have a mission to complete, then I would love to keep them there for another round. Nonetheless, I think the ladies are ready." With that we walked over to Moran and dismissed the immensely relieved greenies to gather their things with double the speed than before._

_We were out within five minutes._

_As expected, we got there sooner than I said. I ignored the look Moran gave me because I knew it would be accusatory and it isn't exactly trust - showing if I say that I didn't tell him the truth because it was suspected he was a traitor. For one, an angry captain on a mission like this would not improve our odds. Secondly, if he was the spy that McCoy dubbed him for, then he might pull something rash and put the rest of these men in danger. Best to stay quiet. Silence will tell no lies and speak no truths. Neutral._

_By this point, the men were already alert and in military mode. They rifles and snipers were half-cocked and prepared to shoot any man that came at our way. Us captains were prepared to risk our lives to keep those troops safe. They weren't even in the official ranks yet. This would be their final mission and I'll be damned if I make that final more certain than it should be._

_"The main objective is stealth. We are not killing these men off. We are just here for the goods they have. I repeat, no live fire." It was brief but all the men got it. They knew this before hand._

_"The group will be split it two halves. One of you will go after the items, retrieve them, and retreat. The others will protect group one as well as making the sure the area is secured."_

_When I turned around to look at them, I caught the faintest glimpse of one of them getting my attention. I nodded in their direction to show that they have my attention._

_"What if our cover is blown? What is the priorities then, sir?"_

_I gave the bloke, probably not a day over 20, a grim smile, "Then you have permission to fire upon them. Be wary of your surroundings and keep low. Mainly,"I paused, "don't get shot."_

_"As if we have a choice, sir. If it's our fate to die, then so be it. Our families will be happy with whatever they get of our cause." A few nodded in agreement with the same murmurs of "death" and "fate"._

_McCoy spoke up this time, "Yeah? Well, fate's a bitch so fight against her as long as you can. Listen to Watson and don't die." There were no more murmurs of the subject after that as we crept slowly to one of the buildings made of compact dirt and looked close to caving. From there, the groups split off. Group two made its way toward the destination with group one in tow after they gave the signal._

_Everything was running smoothly. It felt almost too good to be true. Any doubts I had for Moran ran out immediately as I forgot about the potential traitor threat. As they say, out of sight out of mind and Moran was directing group two. I was in group one, making sure they got their safe and, in the odds that group two missed something, to snipe or knock out any personnel sighted of the arsonist group._

_I saw no men though. No arsonists that is. The criminals in speaking seemed like they vanished, or taken out effectively by group two. Again, almost too good to be true and the sinking feeling of doubt filled me immediately. Something didn't seem right._

_And normally my gut was correct about these things._

_Watching for the signals and moving from building to building, all empty and all desolate, we arrived at the destination in record time for these sort of ordeals. I didn't like this. I knew my men probably were trusting this to be luck, but I couldn't believe it. One look at McCoy, who decided to follow me, and I got the gist that he thought the same as well. We would have to tread carefully. _

_The room was empty when we got to the door. The supplies were there and they appeared to be not missing any boxes, but it was off. Suspiciously off. No men watched over the boxes. There were no cameras. No technology. It all spelled set up with bold and italicized letters. _

_I was considering the option of not going inside when Moran showed up. There were no other soldiers in tow._

_"Watson," he greeted._

_"Moran," I nodded, looking around him, "where are the others? They were supposed to be with you." I couldn't hide the concern and suspicion in my voice._

_The faintest expression change occurred over Moran's face. His eyes narrowed and if I hadn't been scrutinizing him, I would have missed it entirely. He wasn't telling me something. This didn't seem right and I began to think over what McCoy said. _

_"I told them to go and scout the area. It seems to have been cleaned out but you never know. They may be smarter than you think." This was pointed directly at me. The atmosphere grew thick. I could probably cut it, but the knife would never go through. It was too thick._

_One of the men beside me seemed anxious, "Sir? Should we inspect the supplies?"_

_Sighing, I broke the glare with Moran and nodded. McCoy and the men made their way to the supplies. I saw out of the corner of my eye as Moran did a small gesture. Not a second later a gun was shot. I didn't have enough time as the bullet stroke the flammable supplies and an explosion occurred. I didn't have enough time to call their names. To warn them. _

_The blast came next. The building remained soundly sturdy, but myself and Moran flew back. My head hit something hard but I didn't have the time to check. I wanted to help my men. I wanted to try and save them._

_That's when Moran appeared in front of me. If my head hadn't been spinning at the time, I might have gotten up to punch that smirk off his face. It was in plain sight. Not the little quirks or a twitch here and there. It was an actual snide grin that made me regret ever doubting McCoy._

_Moran didn't look at all confused by the blast. He stood tall and looked down on me. "Richard Brooks sends his greetings." He kicked a piece of smoking garbage to the side before revealing his own personal weapon. "He's well. Been getting better at his craft since you kicked him out."_

_I couldn't reply immediately due to the lack or air. Even so, If I had the breath I would have asked about the first topic that came to mind._

_Good thing the breathlessness was only brief._

_The breath was just coming back to me, "the men... that went with you... what happened to them, Moran?" It was breathless and a little hoarse, but I knew he got it when that grin widened into one of malicious mindsets. Oh god... how did I let this man ever join my group? Yes I trusted him... but how did I not know?_

_Moran chuckled in that low, almost menacing way of his, "they had a run with a few arsonists. Of course, I figured you would know that not all of them use bombs. Your men just happened to be standing in a small wet mound of gasoline. A match just happened to fall. I just happened to be turning the corner when I saw it. It all just happened in that weird way it does. Fate, correct?"_

_I attempted to pick my head off the building behind me but dizziness consumed me quickly. A concussion I would assume. Wonderful. If Moran wanted to kill me, now was his chance._

"_Why don't you..." I grunted as I tried to fix my posture, closing my eyes to avoid the spinning disaster, "Finish me off then?"_

"_And let you die with honors?" Moran scoffed before shaking his head. "Unlike you, I'm not a complete idiot."_

"_Then why are you keeping me alive?"_

"_Orders."_

"_Orders?" I repeated incredulously. Who is ordering this man?_

_Wait._

_I thought of the first thing he said to me after the blast. "Richard Brooks sends his greetings". Is he the one behind this? Is this what he had planned for me all this time?_

"_He doesn't want me to kill you, although I personally would love to. No, he wants you to face a worse end than that. Being stripped of honors and sent back packing." He paused and brought up his sniper, pointing it at my forehead briefly before lowering it to my left shoulder. "He did say I could maim you though. Might as well take up the offer."_

_Even with the silencer on his gun, the sound still vibrated against the empty base. The flames in the background muffled it just barely with its roars and cries of hunger. The hunger that wasn't pleased with all the men that it ate. _

_I didn't cry out from the pain. I hissed and grunted as the blood began to flow freely through my uniform, but I didn't give a shout. I began to feel the cloth of my uniform stick to the wound uncomfortably. What made it worse is that I couldn't move my shoulder. Not because of a shredded tendon or artery. No, it's because if I moved it, I could feel the bullet lodged into the muscle deeply. It was like having a rock between your toes but more fatal._

"_That hurt? I've told it does," Moran shrugged, lowering his sniper to his side again. He walked closer to the flames and he stiffened._

_That's when I saw it. McCoy. Even though he was a little charred and worse for wear, his body was crawling out of the flames. It was a sad, but hopeful sight. Of course, one look at Moran's face proved that it was all for naught. _

_Walking over to McCoy, he smirked. He raised his sniper again and another bullet rang out. I didn't see where it landed. I only saw McCoy stop moving. He was still and from my distance, a single breath didn't stir in his chest. It was heart-wrenching and anger filled me._

_Moran turned on his ankles and faced me, speaking as he neared me, "I can see how the captains will see this. They will believe me, you know. They already believe me to be better than you, of course you know otherwise. Nonetheless, any pleas on your half will be futile. On the following night, the twenty-third of April, Captain John Watson knowingly led his men into a reckless mission. He did so as the poor captains by his side became suspicious of the act. When the groups split off, Captain Watson took the group two ahead and motioned for the arsonists to get rid of the team. He relished their cries. When he returned, I, Captain Moran, was about to detain him but before I could, he let out another gesture and the entire supplies exploded along with the remaining team. The only survivors were Watson, McCoy, and I, although with a quick shot, McCoy was laid to rest as well. I watched in horror as the Watson neared me but gained the courage to fight him, shoot him in the shoulder, and knock him out."_

_He gave a cruel grin as he murmured this explanation. I viewed him in silence. He was right. I had no say. If I were to try and go against his word, they would have to find a witness for the night and every single one of them were killed off besides myself and Moran._

"_That's a tad dramatic, isn't it Moran," I bit at him, "didn't know you had the theatrical flare."_

_He shrugged, "I blame the boss for that. Bloody idiot." He sighed._

_I felt my breath speed up and I gritted my teeth. Right, the shock. Almost forgot about that. I just got to do the simple thing. Don't go into shock. Easier said than done._

"_What's the matter, John?" That was the first time he said my name since we introduced each other, "Shock getting to you?" I didn't reply to his taunt and watched as he crouched down in front of me. The flames behind him danced along his shadowed silhouette. It made him look more evil than it should. It didn't improve the shock either._

"_You know, this is all your fault," Moran spoke._

"_How... how so?" I muttered. I already believed it though. I just wanted to keep him talking and procrastinate any future activities he had planned._

"_If you only believed McCoy when he told you. You know, he tried to warn you without saying everything. He did catch me after all. Caught me relaying a message and I threatened him to remain quiet. He tried to help you and the other brats, but you didn't listen now did you? It's all your fault they are dead either way you see it. You didn't warn them fast enough. You didn't believe the suspicions. You didn't catch me. It's all going on your shoulders."_

_I didn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that I felt the same. I knew it was my fault. Knew it the minute that building exploded. Knew it the second that the awful feeling settled in my guts. Moran didn't have to rub it in._

_The shock was wearing off slowly. Too slowly. Moran raised from his position and walked over to McCoy, who was still not moving, and wrapped his hand around the chain on his neck, pulling it over his head. He walked back to me, swinging the chain back and forth. It was his dog tag._

_I couldn't resist him too strongly with the shock and bullet so Moran placed the tag over my head easily, "There. Makes my story a tad easier to explain. Wish all the others weren't in flames so I could get theirs too. It would be quite the shrine. You, their alter."_

"_You're sick," I spit at him._

"_And you are not?" I could hear the undertones of "hypocrite" in his voice._

"_At least I didn't kill my own men," I argued feebly. He rose his brow._

"_But you still were on the front lines to kill many others who are not, as they say, on your side." Accusations. Damn it. He was right. I couldn't deny anything he said. That made it so much worse._

_I could feel the shock begin the ebb off a little quickly. I wasn't clenching my teeth nearly as hard as I was. I was able to open my eyes to glare daggers at Moran. He didn't even faze from the look. If anything, he looked immensely amused. _

"_So what now?" I growled and rose my brow in the direction of Moran. He replied with a shrug._

"_We wait. I have no doubt the big boys have heard of this scene. They will be here in five perhaps."_

_I nodded slowly before murmuring, "Why are you doing this, Moran?" That was the big question and I didn't understand why I was asking it only now._

_Closing his eyes, he opened them with a half-lidded distant look, "Because I was given a better offer than the military could ever offer."_

_I didn't have time to question anything else because within the next minute, Moran was on me, a rock in his hand._

"_I can't keep you conscious when they arrive. They'll be doubting my image and you'll tell them of my 'injuries' wouldn't you?" with that, he smashed the rock upside my head and my vision spiraled into subconsciousness._

_When I came to, I was in the infirmary tent on base. I wasn't used to being on this end of treatment. Normally I'm the one giving the stitches or necessary amputations. I tried to move my hands to pull out most of the cords, but chains rattled and my hands were restricted. One look revealed cuffs. _

_I guess they believed Moran's story after all. Like he said they would. _

_Now the trail was only going to get worse. _

_I sighed and a small jingle accompanied the breath. The dog tags around my neck. They let me keep them. _

_The roller coaster began it's quick decent when the first of many captains came up with their higher ups in tow. They read me my rights that I had in the situation of my confinement. They read off what was said by Moran. They read and read and read until all the words began to jumble up into a mess of lies. The last phrase I caught was my trial in a few days. _

_So, what did I do for those few days? I thought of every single kid as well as McCoy. I thought of their perks and faults. I treasured them. I apologized countless times. I didn't think of myself. I didn't think of the possibility of a death sentence or prison. I didn't think of anything like that. Because, it wasn't all about me right now. It was about the greenies that died without a single warning. It was about my captain that I completed the courses with. Not me. I wasn't in the picture._

_When the officers arrived to take me to the tent, I was ready. They gave me mixture looks of disbelief and worry, mainly because I taught them, and directed me silently. The only relieving gesture they offered was putting my trial after all the other recruits were supposed to be in their bunkers. I didn't have to see any other look. It didn't matter. My eyes were glued to the area in front of me, but not seeing it. _

_My pride and trusting nature would be the death of me. _

_Well, pride now. I don't trust people anymore. You never know what they may have behind their smiles. No, not trust. I'm done with trusting people because I seem to not know who to trust. I misplace it._

_The tent flaps were pushed open by the officers behind them and I was let in. They didn't push me like most trials do to the criminal. They let me walk in with the pride thick in my step. What was left anyways._

_They directed me to a chair and told me to sit. They didn't restrain me to the arms of the chair. They trusted me. The few who did anyhow. I didn't know what to say about anybody else in the room._

_Most of them held a look of shock and disgust. Few, and I mean very little, had this look of doubt. They didn't think I did it. I wished there were more of them in this room. I wish, but I was outnumbered. Besides, I'm sure their views would change once Moran spoke up. _

"_Captain John Hamish Watson, you are being trialed for the death of fifteen cadets along with Captain Franklin James McCoy. How do you find yourself?"_

"_Guilty," I spoke. I didn't murmur this. I knew they would ask me to repeat it so I spoke loud enough for everyone to hear it in this room._

_Everyone muttered before looking at me once more, pity in their eyes. Wonderful. Just what I wanted._

"_Captain Sebastian Moran, would you care to give your voucher?"_

_He nodded and when I saw his expression, I wanted to laugh and growl at the same time. It had that mocking look of fear and sadness that I knew he didn't contain. Of course nobody looked into his eyes. They were to busy being pushed over with the expression on his face._

"_May I brief it, sir?" he murmured quietly. Bloody hell. He really is dramatic isn't he?_

"_I'm sorry Captain, but we need to hear everything. Word for word." Everyone in the room nodded. Some in curiosity, some just because it was procedure._

_Taking a deep breath, he said exactly what he told me he would say, "On the following night, the twenty-third of April, Captain John Watson knowingly led his men into a reckless mission. He did so as the captains by his side became suspicious of the act. When the groups split off, Captain Watson took Group two ahead and motioned for the arsonists to get rid of the team. He relished their cries. When he returned, I, Captain Moran, was about to detain him but before I could, he let out another gesture and the entire supplies exploded along with the remaining team. The only survivors were Watson, McCoy, and I, although with a quick shot, McCoy was laid to rest as well. I watched in horror as the Watson neared me but gained the courage to fight him, shoot him in the shoulder, and knock him out."_

_More low conversations were held after this was said. I was getting annoyed, but I stopped the emotion. This wasn't the time._

_After their opinions were given, the man who spoke to me first, voiced his disgust once more, "Captain? Is this what happened? Did you do this to all those men willingly?"_

_I scoffed softly, "If I said otherwise would you believe me?"_

_The Colonel looked down on me quietly while I continued, "Did I do these acts? No, I didn't. Could I have stopped them? Yes, I could have but my trust and ignorance prohibited the act. So, now I stand before you pleading guilty not for the acts I did, but for the acts I didn't do."_

_I sighed, "Either way, I am guilty in your eyes. Now I am awaiting the penalty I know I deserve."_

_Moran eyes narrowed at my reply, but I didn't know why. The colonel and majors muttered lowly. They were doubting Moran's words. They didn't believe he did it, but they didn't believe I did it either. For some reason, they were doubting everything. I didn't know whether to be happy about this or disappointed._

_Clearing his throat, the Colonel let a gruff through, "So you didn't do these acts. Are you blaming Captain Moran?"_

_I shook my head, "No, sir. I am not, in any circumstance, blaming Captain Sebastian Moran. I am taking the fall for my inability as a captain. That is all."_

_The Colonel seemed satisfied with that answer. He motioned for the others who judged me to walk out of the tent to decide my fate while Moran and I remained. _

_A laugh rung out, but it was only loud enough for me to hear. Sebastian neared me._

"_You may have saved yourself, Captain Watson," he spoke, "I suppose I shouldn't have thought so lowly of you after all." He leaned against my chair, but I made no move to acknowledge him. "That's good. He would have been unhappy if you plead for the death sentence. Mainly with myself, but partially for your cowardice. But you are not a coward, are you?"_

_He crouched in front of me, "You are taking the blame. You do think it is your fault. Interesting. I didn't think you were that loyal. You know, it will be that loyalty that officially ends you." With that he walked back to his chair while the other judges walked back in to deliver the verdict._

_I took a deep breath before meeting the eyes of the Colonel._

"_The others as well as I have spoken. You, Captain John Hamish Watson, are innocent," he paused, "But you are to be officially sent home with no honor and no pension. We will inform the parents and spouses of their husband's or son's death, but we will not mention your name. Your family, however, will know of this entire ordeal in it's details. Is that understood?"_

_I couldn't breathe. Innocent? I didn't deserve that._

"_Why? Why innocent?"_

_The Colonel gave a grim smile, "Because everyone in this tent knows you, John Watson. We know that you would not do this on purpose. But, you were right in one thing. You were deficient. You didn't save those men from the danger you were supposed to keep them from. So, if you want the more detailed verdict in your case, you are innocent of being a criminal, but guilty in being a captain and the lives of those men you failed to save."_

_The answer was sound, "When will I return home, sir?"_

_He tilted his head to the side, "Within the hour. The next copter arrives soon so I advise you go to your tent and pack up your belongings."_

_Moran rose his hand. _

"_Yes, Captain?"_

"_May I accompany Watson to his tent. I wish to apologize for the accusations I gave him." The Colonel didn't believe it, but he gave the okay. I wasn't looking forward to the confrontation._

_With a salute, we left the tent and walked back to my own. It was a surprisingly silent walk. I didn't like it. _

_It was while I was packing that Moran spoke up. I was about done and turned to face him, immediately bristling. He was brandishing a knife in his palms. _

"_So, before you leave, I should give you a farewell gift. What shall it be? Innocent? Murderer? Or do you have your own personal request?" He walked towards me and I backed against the wall. He took a step towards me, but I couldn't move back anymore._

"_What shall it be?" His knife was to my neck, but I reacted quickly. Hitting his wrist, he hissed and dropped the knife and I caught it. Moran was on my again, but this time we crashed into one of the bunkers. My back was on the mattress while he hovered over me. He was pressing the knife in my hand to my neck. I resisted and was thankful that the knife wasn't in the hand of my injured shoulder._

_Grunting, I kicked Moran off my and slashed at him a few times. I didn't know where they hit, but when I looked up, I saw three slashes going from his right cheek, across the bridge of his nose, and to his left. They were bleeding._

_After that, he didn't advance towards me. He was laughing. Actually laughing at his pain and the mess he made. I was wondering borderline if the man was possibly insane._

_With a kick, he knocked over something. It wasn't mine so I guessed it was possibly McCoy's. Whatever it was, it shattered. Sebastian than faked a collapse on the ground and I dropped the knife, kicking it in the far back corner under my bunk._

_That was all the noise the officers needed to hear before running in. They looked from Moran to me. They thought I attacked him. I can see why._

"_Did he.." began the officer but Moran rose and waved it off._

"_No, no. Don't go pointing fingers. I accidentally knocked this picture frame down and slipped. That's all."_

_The officer gasped, "Captain! Your face!"_

_He pursed his lips, although I could see the amusement in his eyes, "What about it?"_

"_It's cut. You need medical attention!" Thank you cadets._

_Moran laughed, "Later. I still have to see Watson off. Now off with you." They left, but not without sending worried glances back. _

_I rose my brow, "Why didn't you rat me out then? Tired already?"_

_He smirked, "Hardly. I just don't want boss to get mad at me because his toy was changed from innocent to a death sentence."_

_I didn't bother asking any more questions of Richard Brooks. I knew Moran. Or at least, I thought I did. He wouldn't give information even if his life was on the line. I know from experience of past missions._

_Picking up my drawstring, I swung it on my back. Moran followed me as I made my way to the dispatch zone. The copter was already there._

_Turning around, I looked at Moran, "So now what? Are you going to go after another captain? Who else is on that list?"_

_He shrugged, "Don't know yet. I have an idea, but I'll probably leave this place. It's kind of annoying. Restricting. I hate restrictions." Coming near me, he swung an arm over my shoulder and hugged me. It was an act. Whispering lowly into my ear, he muttered, "You're not out of the woods yet. I would watch your back if I was you. Richard isn't done making your life a living hell."_

_Nodding, I gave a fake smile and he did the same. Throwing a pretense wave in his direction, I got on the copter and went home._

_Well, no, not really. My father rejected me. My sister begged for him to change his mind, but it didn't turn in my favor. I knew it wouldn't. My father was a proud man and since my mother passed, he became a sour one with it. Not a good combination._

_And the whole time, I was waiting for Brooks to come after me. Come after my family or past friends. I expected it. _

_That seemed worse than death._

_It was only then that I understood what Moran said. Dying with honors would have been better than living a life of ridicule and hate._

_It wasn't news to me._

_After all, it was only the beginning wasn't it?_

_**(End flashback)**_

After I gave my answer, Sherlock was quiet. Too quiet. I didn't hear him shuffle his feet or take even the smallest of breaths. It was dead quiet. A thinking quiet. A contemplating-what-to-say quiet. I didn't like it. Never have now that I thought of it.

Would he be disgusted with me? Would he despise me? It was all up in the air at this moment. Could go any direction.

I could feel the worry eat me away. It made me immensely glad that I wasn't Sherlock. If I was him, I wouldn't be able to deal with this. I would probably die of worry. That would be a first.

Feet shuffled, and I watched him limp over to the window. He looked out, not seeing. This was his thinking movements, or that is what I have come to gather. If it wasn't his hands, it would be the window. He was thinking but what of?

"So, what was the name of the captain's name?" He spoke with no emotion.

"Captain Sebastian Moran."

"As in, the Moran that works for Moriarty?" he deadpanned, turning to look at me.

I paused and the realization hit, "So... you are saying that Moriarty..."

"Was Richard Brooks. He has been in your life all this time and you haven't noticed?" He was surprised, but it was better than disgust.

I cursed, but sighed, "that's besides the point. At this moment, I want to know what you think of me."

"Why?" he asked innocently.

"Why?" I shook my head in disbelief, "So I know if I should leave or find another place."

"Why would you leave?" he furrowed his brows.

"Because... of my past..?" I spoke questioningly, confused with his reaction.

He looked me straight in the eye, and laughed. It was a hearty laugh. Not a mocking one, but one of sincerity.

Walking over to my stiff form, he stopped in front of me, "My dear John, no. Why would I make you leave because of your past? I can't say I have done worse, but I do know I have done things myself that others tend to regret in my favor. I'm not going to make you leave. Why would you think such thoughts?" He chuckled as he shook his head, "Sometimes you amaze me, John."

I stared at him in shock. If I was the emotional sort, I might have burst into happy tears, but I wasn't. I was uniform and kept to myself. I didn't know what to do to show my appreciation.

Sherlock seemed confused as well, "John? Did I say something wrong?"

I shook my head mutely. Thinking for a second, I quickly decided it was the best action and stood. Sherlock was about to back away to give me some room but I caught him in a hard hug.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"What are you doing?"

I laughed, "Hugging you. Because it's the only way I can think to say thanks."

"For what?" he asked as he slowly got the hand of a "hug" and moved his hands to fall awkwardly over me.

"For being my friend."

He froze.

I looked up at him, but he wasn't responding. It was like he was a computer program and was unresponsive because of a crash or something.

"Sherlock?" I would have backed away, but his entire body was not moving and his arms would not move from around me.

"I..." he paused, "I'm your..."

"Friend?" we finished and I nodded while rolling my eyes.

"Yeah, of course you are. What else would you be?"

He seemed speechless, but I took the act to being surprised and walked out of his arms and to my room. Exhaustion was claiming me quickly and my shoulders seemed a lot lighter at the moment. Ten times lighter. A hundred time. Just lighter in general.

"John."

I stopped and turned around. Sherlock was still standing where I left him.

"Thank you."

I nodded and smiled, "No, thank you. Now, get some sleep, you git. I'm sure you will need plenty of it for that ankle of yours." With that I left the room and walked into my own. It was quiet but not the comfortable sort.

Odd.

My guts clenched and I almost swore before flipping the lights on.

I almost had a heart attack.

Sitting there in another one of her flamboyant dresses, was miss Fria Dubois. Her legs were crossed and her hands were placed firmly on top of them. The look she gave me was serious, with a touch of amusement mixed in.

"Hello John. Long time no see."

* * *

><p><em>There you go! I'm sorry if the chapter wasn't to your liking. It took me forever. Originally, Moran wasn't going to be in here, but I really wanted to add that little twist for fun. It gives you an idea as to why Sebastian and Moriarty knew all about John when they abducted him, although John was too exhausted to remember them. Poor guy. It probably would have helped him and Sherlock a few times.<em>

_Ah, yes. The Raven. She's back. Did you forget her? She will play a part in getting them two together as well as possibly risking splitting them apart. It's a gigantic mess I'm sorting out in my head._

_I hoped you all liked this chapter. I know I enjoyed writing it. I promised myself 10000 words and that is what you got. I didn't settle for less because it would take the story away and I love this flashback._

_Also I got to put my two cents into that whole cuts on Sebastian's face headcannon thing. _

_Alright, you know the drill._

_Favorite, Follow, Review, or Read._

_Ciao~_


	20. Chapter 20

_Edit: I have had this entire chapter sitting in my freaking doc manager for the last 2 weeks and haven't posted it because of school, projects, erratic sleeping patterns, and sickness. ._. Chapter 21 in the works... won't be for a bit. English is killing me guys and it's not the assignments. It's the teacher. *sigh*_

_20th Chapter! Never thought I would get this far guys. At all. I'm glad it did though and it's all because of you lovely readers. Thanks guys._

_Oh! I must must must say this to a reviewer since she was just a Guest and I wanted to reply so badly!_

_To Guest: I'm so glad that you even took the time to review to my fanfiction. Even if you were locked out of your account. Honestly, I was a little stunned that someone would still review after that kind of thing occurred. I'm glad you approve of my choice in music, dear. It makes me happy. I'm so pleased to hear that you like my writing style, even if it is bloody awful. It's funny how you compare it to an artist since I paint and draw in my spare time. Thank you so much for the review and I really really hope you see this! ^^_

_(As for you Coleys, I will reply to every single one of your replies after I post this~ Don't worry. I have seen all of your reviews! ^^))_

_Sorry for the late chapter, again. School is becoming very exhausting and I'm changing my habits of procrastination now that it's my Junior year and it's this year that really counts, you know? I have been writing this chapter throughout the two weeks in my advisory class or I sketch out plans in my note book. Either way, I am still working on it! ^^ I'm not going to drop it because school is becoming a major priority._

_Anyhow, this isn't my favorite chapter due to a few things, but it's there. I have a few more things to mention, but that won't be until the end since I can't say it now. ^^_

_Enjoy._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

><p>Chapter 20<p>

John POV

Without hesitation, I turned around and walked back out.

Sleep and blogging didn't sound as appetizing as it did before. Not at all.

I expected the sitting room to be a little more bearable but I was supposedly wrong. Wouldn't be the first time and probably wouldn't be the last.

And all because of a certain detective.

Sherlock apparently had his night planned out, even with his injured ankle. Even hobbling around he won't sit still. He was already at the kitchen table with everything from test tubes to a Bunsen burner out, low flame glowing a fair blue colour. I wasn't surprised when I took in the unmistakeable smell of raw meat and possibly a few organs.

Great. Experiments. I wondered aimlessly if he actually planned to clean it this time or if he was going to leave it for poor Mrs. Hudson. Probably the latter.

He was all set to go too. Mask was on, meaning something probably unsafe to inhale, and gloves covered his hands. Definitely something I would not want in this flat. Sherlock knows this. He probably thought he could get away with it. Nope. Not going to happen. Not after blowing up the kitchen last time. That took a few promises on my part and a couple unwanted cases to repair. I would like to keep away from the elder Holmes as much as possible. I thought Sherlock did too.

The way he's looking, I can just picture the pleased expression on Mycroft's face when he comes into a flat of charred furniture and a blogger grabbing a certain detective by the ear.

Well, I'm not going back into that room with _her_. That means I'm going to have to make this area more... pleasing.

Step 1: Stopping this bloody experiment.

"And what do you think your doing?" I shouted, ignoring the fact that the woman of my past is lounging in my bedroom. I can worry about her later. First of all, let's prevent a impending disaster that would affect everywhere in this entire flat, besides my bedroom, and then deal with her. It wasn't rocket science to prefer living with annoyance to dying in some uncommon endeavor.

Sherlock froze temporarily before continuing pouring what I could assume as peroxide into the beaker, "Experiments."

I leaned against the entryway, "What for? You have no cases to use as excuses."

We both knew the answer.

"Boredom," we spoke in unison and I sighed. Should I have expected anything else?

"Well, you won't be bored now. I can guarantee that." Those were the magic words and just like that, Sherlock looked up. If he was a cat, his ears would probably perk up, alert and curious. His eyes were trained on me. He was all ears now. Now that "won't" and "bored" were in the same sentence.

"And why is that, John?" He asked, putting the beaker down and pulling off his gloves and mask. I watched him toss them aside carelessly into the sink. He left everything else on the table. Typical. I'll scold him later. Again. For the fifteenth time this week.

Knocking on my bedroom door a couple times, Sherlock eyed it in curiosity. Not a second later did Fria emerge from my room.

I don't know what I expected from the man. Normal men would probably gawk at her and fall to her feet, besides me of course, but Sherlock just observed her with neutrality. He didn't seem to like her in the arousing way men do. He didn't seem to hold a reaction at all. It was silence and speculation.

I let out a sigh of relief I didn't know I was holding.

Wait, why was I relieved with this? It wasn't like him and I were going out or anything of the sort. We were just mates. That's what I told him a second ago. Mates.

I shook my head and motioned for the couch. She looked at me questioningly before smirking. Oh god, that look. She was trying to get me to look at her in "that way" but I wasn't fooled. She figured this out in due time and practically huffed all the way to the couch. Sitting down gracefully, she crossed her legs and then looked at us expectantly.

"Well?" she spoke, annoyed, "I came all this way for a case. You might as well make me a cup of tea or however it is with you." She was letting her accent through. She only ever did that when she was angered or annoyed. Otherwise it was in check. I guess she was angry that nobody was going to follow her like some lost puppy.

Sherlock seemed greatly amused with this fact and sat down in his arm chair, observing her with a deep amount of interest. He seemed in pain from the ankle since he had to hold onto furniture to move, but the pain was only foggily present compared to the amount of intrigue in his eyes. More than before. I just rolled my eyes at his awkward observing and went to go make tea.

It was only a certain amount of time before he spoke up those words.

"Paris or Bordeaux?" I heard it and smirked as I watched the tea. I was on that end once and I do not miss it. Although, seeing it being done on others is quite a sight. Sherlock never sees it, but I notice it every single time.

"Paris," she scoffed and I could just imagine her lean seductively as she said her next words, "How did you know that, monsieur?"

"Let me finish," he interrupted and I stifled a snicker, "I would assume multiple lovers, but no certain one. You rely on your phone for this cause. You use flirting to get what you want, I would assume. Obvious. But there's more. You're nervous. You're not supposed to be here, are you? Talking to me? Sitting in this room? Oh no, your supposed to be far far away from me, correct? But you don't like being told what to do I would assume. A woman of your stature would hate the restrictions; especially one so flamboyant as yourself."

I poured the tea as I listened to his deductions. I could just imagine her face. Walking in, I found out I wasn't off the par on that one. She was surprised. Not in a good way either. That's how he is, love.

Sitting in the arm chair next to his, I placed a cup of tea in front of her and put Sherlock's next to him. When his mind rambles, I found that he often drinks or eats whatever is edible that is close to him. It's how I enforce the eating habit now. I shouldn't have to but it is Sherlock.

"How..."

I rolled my eyes, "Care to explain to the woman?"

He murmured lowly, "Why? You don't like her." I didn't bother asking how he knew that. I was being a little careless when she came out. It's easy to get the image that I hated her. And completely accurate as well.

"No, but I'll let my grudges slide for now like a mature adult." Sherlock scoffed at that and I nudged him to remain quiet.

"Well?" Fria spoke impatiently and I almost told Sherlock to forget about giving her anything of the sort.

"Impatient. I don't see why. If you are here, you have a case. If you are impatient to leave, then you are not supposed to be here, as I stated earlier. You know of my methods I would assume, so you should have been prepared for such involvement correct? Or, is that too reckless to think of? I wouldn't know for the women of your stature." I kept back a smile, but Sherlock didn't. He let one small one slip through and peered at me.

"Let's just get to the point please," She huffed, looking away though I could tell she was embarressed. Normally, I would have scolded Sherlock, but I didn't mind this time. I might after her case is given, but my guilt switch was turned off.

"Let's start with the obvious. Your accent. You speak fluently and with vigor which means you are native to France. If it was slower and choppy, i would assume you are faking it and are truly the average American, but no. That would be your British accent. It's slow and you find it hard to cover your French roots." I could tell Sherlock would have gone on and on about Miss Dubois's accent if I didn't jump in. Elbowing the man, I gave him a stern but amused look and he shrugged with a half smile.

"The feathers on your head and the flower brooch you wear is also another indicator of your roots. The feathers are of the Kestrel bird family which often appear in Paris around the major landmarks. The flower, a fleur-de-lys, is one of the most popular flowers in the region. Simple. I'm sure even John could figure it out even." I glared at him but he failed to see it.

"And Paris?" She prompted.

"You answered that one yourself," Sherlock responded dully, "Because with these features in place, the two locations I presented fitted each category."

Fria observed Sherlock for a minute almost like she was taking in his entire face and mind into context before speaking her next words. She was smart, cunning. She observed people by looking at them and she was definitely watching Sherlock like a specimen. I didn't say anything but I felt a little odd spur of some emotion boil in me from watching her look at him in that light.

It wasn't jealousy. Certainly not. This was the mutual feeling of caring for the welfare of a good friend. Nothing more. I was tempted to think more into it but was noticed a small change in Sherlock's expression. Deciding my previous bickerings obsolete at the time, I ignored it. Besides, Sherlock's expression change seemed more interesting than personal problems.

"What I fail to understand Miss Dubois is why you appear to find yourself in my presence. Taking your social status into consideration, you would no doubt be able to find a more... preferable detective in your wake," he said this in deliberation and I realized he was testing her. He was seeing if she posed a threat which was hard to tell with a woman such as herself.

She smiled with a knowing gleam in her eyes, "Yes but they are not a consulting detective like yourself."

Sherlock's lips quirked into a small grin of his own. He was interested and it was blatantly obvious to those who knew him. The posture of his that leaned in and broke so many laws of personal space. His eyes that clearly stated he wasn't thinking of anything else except for what his client will say. Slender fingers tapped against his knees briefly before concluding in their infamous thinking position.

Call it what you will. Intrigued. Captured. Infatuated. He was stuck in a web of curiosity and it was of his own accord. Sherlock Holmes was completely immersed in what lay before him. A woman of mystery. A tale he has yet to deduce to its fullest. New territory.

The first words were always the same. "What case do you wish to bring to my attention, Miss Dubois?"

She crossed her legs, leaning on her intertwined knees, "Actually I must apologize. I do have a case for you, but I have to be absolutely certain that you are as good as you are. So I have another, much smaller task for you. Something to prove your talents as they say. To see if you can pull the sword out of the stone, so to speak?"

I thought the detective next to me would be annoyed and frowning but it appeared his smile only widened. If the atmosphere wasn't so out of my zone I might have teased him for it since he never got this excited unless he knew he would get a good case. One "worthy" of his talents. A boredom breaker.

But I was just someone to listen and take notes when needed. Just a spectator.

"Go on," he prompted but it was almost like a purr in the way his eyes narrowed and lips curled up.

Don't get me wrong. I was interested as well, but watching Sherlock's reactions were almost as intriguing as the case itself. Especially since they were so limited.

Fria's brows rose as she spoke, "Why, monsieur, I'm not sure if such a scene is fit for a man of your caliber. It would require quite a bit of concentration and deception on your part. Not for your lovely army man here, but of the people witnessing the event."

Sherlock scoffed, "You speak as if you think I can't perform such. I could care less for the skills necessary to act out the part. I want the script if you will, Miss Dubois."

"Sans aucun doute le nouveau provocant," she murmured and then flicked her gaze to me. My French wasn't as prominent as the other languages but one word was definitely heard of it all and for some reason that made me stiffen. Provocant. Vaguely translated, sexy.

I didn't know why this bothered me so much though.

The man beside me seemed to understand her without any trouble. He didn't show any signs of appeal to her words. Actually, he didn't show any emotion. He had a pokerface.

"As I was stating before, this will require the utmost amount of charm and acting on your part. This evening I am attending a party for the elite. It's to celebrate the upcoming of some aristocrat I have long forgotten the name of," she waved her hand dismissively. "I have heard that a man is planning to murder multiple victims throughout the ordeal. Randomly chosen, he plans to kill them off without anyone noticing until it's too late. I want you to catch this man before the party is over."

Sherlock mulled this over before narrowing his eyes suspiciously, "Why don't you go to the New Scotland Yard with this information? That seems to be the route to take in these scenarios."

She sighed dramatically, "As much as this pains me to say, the Yard is full of idiots who can't tell blood splatter from pasta sauce. Besides, they are a blind hope. You, monsieur, are not. I know you will catch him and after you do I will tell you the real reason I have arrived at the end of such a heartfelt conversation."

_The real reason? What would that be?_

I'm not going to lie. I didn't trust her. She seemed too "good" or whatever to be finally turning from Moriarty to Sherlock. It was almost like this was her plan - to coax Sherlock in with such a treat as a murder mystery. The thought of that made my heart speed up but I quickly calmed it down before the detective took notice. My face may have appeared resolved, but internally I was thinking of every possibility as to why this woman would be here.

As they say, the easiest way to get information is to ask it outright. Although I don't think I would trust anything that would come out of her mouth anyway, Sherlock would have something to catalog in that brilliant skull of his.

"And why should we trust you," I murmured, cursing to myself when it came out a faint mumble.

"Pardon me?" She looked confused.

"He said why should we trust you and that was what I was going to ask next. Considering what John has told me along with what I am certain of, I know you were previously with Moriarty. He wishes to end me. You just happen to appear quite quickly after our initial meeting. One can't help but be suspicious of your motives can they, Miss Dubois?"

"Ah, yes. I suppose you are right," she paused briefly, "but to answer your question, you shouldn't trust me. I never said you couldn't trust me but you really really shouldn't, monsieur Holmes. I'm a woman for one; a woman who is very good at getting what she wants through deceit and cunning. Keep that in mind."

Her answer was straightforward and seemed more truthful than not. I didn't expect her to give such an honest answer due to our past interferences. She surprised me yet again it seems but not in the good light like our last encounter. This had liar written all over it. Like most of what she says and proclaims. I knew Sherlock didn't trust her either, as both of us don't necessarily hold that quality in many, but he still wanted to go at this case headstrong.

I just hope that he knows what he is doing.

"I'm pleased that we have discussed and have come to the agreement to not trust you in the entirety. Now, getting on with what you said earlier, I will take the case. It seems easy enough to attend and difficult enough to keep my mind in a loop for at least an hour. Now you have to explain the one detail you have failed to mention."

"The skills necessary?" She spoke with a smile. Sherlock didn't nod. He just stared at her.

Fria paused for a moment too long for comfort and i began to worry about what these acts were going to be. Certainly i couldn't be myself. I wasn't that naive. Nonetheless, i still didn't want to hear that i would have to go out of my comfort zone for this. It was a tad unsettling. What if I have to play a part I could very well falter in? I don't want to risk Sherlock's life with this. I would put my own life before his.

For some reason, even though I meant this in a way a soldier is loyal to his country or a pupil is to his friend, it seemed strangely more than that. Deeper than that.

Like I was protecting someone I loved... but in which context would that apply to Sherlock?

I blinked when Fria looked at me knowingly. She seemed to understand something that I have yet to come to terms with. I have no doubt about that. My face heated at what she thought but I quickly thought of something very unappetizing (specifically Mycroft) and the threatening red tint in my skin left. Too late. She saw it and that gleam was not a romantic interest but something relative to a child's curiosity.

"Miss Dubois?" Sherlock got her attention back on him but I spotted the brief shadowy glance spared in my direction at our exchange. Was that distaste I detected from the Sherlock Holmes? I knew he doesn't like public displays of affection, but he wasn't normally this annoyed of it. In fact, he usually shows no interest at all.

It was odd to see such an expression on him.

"Oh yes. I'm sorry monsieur. Your army doctor seemed much more interesting at the moment. You really should have paid attention. It would have been worth the observation," her red lips quirked up. I, on the other hand, froze briefly before forcing myself to relax. She was clearly amused with our predicament at the moment. God I hate her. "Anyhow, the skills you must have perfected and scripted before reaching the event is acting. I don't mean friends and comrades. You two must act like you are a couple. Completely infatuated. If you want a specific amount of actions you must perform, you have to be ready to kiss, make out, the like when prompted. Immersed. No hesitation."

Sherlock and I froze simultaneously. It wasn't planned but the mere presence of having to be more than friends tested many aspects in both of us. For one, Sherlock doesn't want to be in a relationship. He doesn't even see people like that. I wouldn't be surprised if he said no to her because there was no way-

"Fine. Is that all?" Nothing was betrayed in his voice. No hesitation resounded. Damn him. I knew I was completely taken by this. How was he not of all people?

Although one look at his fingers presented how tense he was on the situation. He seemed at a crossroads, like I was, and that made me feel a little better knowing I wasn't over-reacting.

Miss Dubois also seemed rather surprised as well but her lips quirked up. She was pleased. No wait. She was more than that. She looked absolutely thrilled but not because he accepted the case. No it was more like she was happy that things were going like they should.

"Just dress nice and act proper," she stood slowly and gently fixed her perfect hair. "Be ready to act like a couple monsieur Holmes. It will ultimately be what helps you with this case." With a wink and a soft blow of a kiss in my direction, she was out the door.

It took us slightly longer to react.

Sherlock was the first.

Standing almost gracefully - his ankle seemed to hinder him from rising as elegantly as he usually did -, he stared ahead, unseeing. To anyone else he might have been staring at the smiley face on the wall he painted months ago. But he wasn't. He was thinking and clearly about what just happened. I know I was at least.

Blinking at the face as if a mental conversation had occurred between the two, he looked at me with his orthodox emotionless expression.

"I advise you to get ready. Seeing as we have to go to this event and you don't have any clothing to fit the occasion, we will both go to get you something of your tastes." He said this in a straight monotone voice. It was like the one time I asked why he despised his brother. I never got an complete answer. Only the answer machine response of "It's a long story that I fail to see the reason for you to know."

This was much the case but I wasn't the person to prod when it seemed a childish and harmless debate.

"Fine... wait! What are you going to be wearing? You can't possibly be thinking wearing your usual three-piece attire is decent?"

Sherlock look confused, "I don't see what you are getting on about now John. It seems completely fine to do so."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, "one of these days I need to introduce some sense of fashion in you. Fine. Wear your bloody expensive suit. But!" I stuck up one finger. "I get to help you. For some reason you seem to have a lot of difficult getting your daily clothes on." I forgot when was the last time I saw him with clothes and everything was perfectly fine. An upturned collar. A stray button not in the hole. Some part of the shirt being not tucked in or entirely inside-out! I have long concluded Sherlock Holmes could not for the life of him get his clothes on without help.

"Fine. Whatever suits your fancy," he rolled his eyes as I grinned at him.

After a few minutes we had our shoes and the like on and were out the door and into a cab.

Turns out that "going out to get a suit" involved taking a cab to a local venue and Sherlock just tossing things into the dressing room as I tried to undress from the last thing he through at me. I didn't know how he knew my size but everything he tossed in my direction fit me comfortably and without the slightest bit of restriction. I ignored the concerning factor of how much weight I managed to lose, or still have missing, and quietly adjusted the belt to keep the trousers where they should be.

Shirt after tie, trouser after shoe, I was placed into so many outfits without single bit of commentary. It was becoming rather annoying really quickly. I suppose Sherlock was trying to rush but it only caused me to get more frenzied with stress. I felt like a doll that some two-year old was using to their hearts content and I was certainly not a happy doll.

Sherlock's hand appeared again with a pale green shirt - the 18th bloody shirt in this half hour - but instead of grabbing the shirt I forcefully grabbed his hand and yanked him inside. He stumbled in slightly, wincing as his ankle was caught at a bad angle. I almost felt bad but the ridiculousness of this situation outweighed that temporarily.

"One more shirt. One more pair of trousers. One more. I will not have you throw every shirt in this store at me," I growled and Sherlock's lips thinned before he nodded. He left the room while I sighed and carefully stacked the countless outfits and paired the shoes. I expected him to be back when I was done, but all was quiet in the little dressing room.

I kept my shirt off, but avoided the mirror. I knew what I would see. Scars. Words. Lines. They tainted my figure like incorrect paint strokes. But that wasn't the whole reason. No, it was something worse. It scared the soldier in me. It made my finger that rested on the gun quiver in anxiety.

Because I felt dirty and utterly worthless and I didn't want Sherlock to see that part of me now that I realized that I may harbor feelings for the stoic detective. A small amount. A crush. Either way it would be unrequited. He would never get into a romantic situation with anyone.

And I was a part of anyone.

"John?" I turned around to see Sherlock holding a outfit. It was simple thank God. Black trousers with a pale dark blue shirt. I grabbed it and the curtains fell back in place now that Sherlock's hand was gone.

When I looked at those words that marred my body, I couldn't help but to think I deserved more of them. It was no sudden motive. I have felt it since the first time I looked in the mirror after the incident. No, it wasn't a voice. It wasn't an imaginary fiend. It was the gradual feeling in my gut that resounded the overall emotion of feeling ugly, worthlessness, and unfortunate. It was always in front of a mirror. Not a reflective spoon or kettle. It was and always had to be a mirror.

Which was why I never told Sherlock to come in freely as I changed.

Which was why I now threw my shirt back on in instant paranoia.

Once again it fit like a glove. I liked it even though I would probably wear it for this occasion and nothing more. I buttoned the last button and looked at myself a few times.

I was taking the outer coat off when I called to Sherlock who I knew was standing right outside the little dressing room like a bouncer, "Alright so maybe you do have some good tastes. Maybe."

No reply came.

"Sherlock?" I rotated to face the curtain but blinked when I was instead met with a familiar set of gray-blue eyes. He was close. Really close.

As Sherlock stood there, I could feel the body heat radiating off of him. The faint smell of tobacco and coffee filtered through my nose but it wasn't unpleasant.

I could notice multiple things of my detective. Like how his gray eyes changed from the blue gray to a greenish blue color from the outfit he chose. Like the small puncture wounds covering his left arm from drug abuse. I could have noticed a lot of things about him but I wasn't some girl in love. Definitely not.

I was just a blogger that knew he couldn't get what he truly wanted.

It was tempting. I won't say it wasn't. But I wasn't miss Dubois. I wasn't going to invade his personal space even though I would love to.

So, instead of leaning closer and finishing that gap, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to filter in my senses. Sherlock made no such move nor any move in fact. He stood there with a contemplating look on his features. He was thinking and clearly about me. I didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

In hindsight I probably should have backed away. That would have saved me but it was too late.

Taking a swift step forward, Sherlock's lips collided with me own. A swift surge of energy flowed through my veins and I froze. All of a sudden my mind went blank and all I could think of were the blue eyes trained half-lidded on me and those soft lips molding with my own. The scent of coffee and tobacco didn't match what his lips tasted of. It was sugar and still sweeter than that.

The background noises of bustling shoppers and annoyed cashiers faded into the distance as the kiss wore on. Large, warm hands grabbed my waist and swift feet forced my back to the mirror. The cold surface of the reflective object sent shivers down my spine. Sherlock seemed to take this as an invitation and softly nipped my lower lip.

And just like that a switch was flipped.

Wrapping my arms around the slim neck of the detective, I stood on my tip toes and began to return the kiss. The soldier in me fought me fought for dominance and I found the taller man groaning softly at my advances. Heat was coursing through my blood and it only seemed to be getting hotter as our noses brushed and lips battled. Mimicking his earlier attempt, I nipped his lower lip none to gently and he gasped. I smirked and took it as an invitation to continue the war.

Our tongues clashed and our breaths mingled. His mouth was like an uncharted cavern that I wanted to roam over repeatedly. Sexual tension radiated from both our movements and it only made our groans and guttural noises more passionate. My hands immediately grabbed the ebony hair of the taller man in front of me as I gave myself more leverage.

Sherlock was not a bad kisser. Not at all. In fact he seemed a little too experienced for a man that doesn't get into relationships or approve of the sort. A thought briefly flew by as I wondered how he got so well at this but it disappeared as his tongue forced mine back. I growled and decided to leave thought out of this lest I lose dominance and I wasn't going to let that happen. He may be experienced but I was older and knew a few tricks up my sleeve.

But of course, that was when the kiss ended. Pulling away, I could see Sherlock's gaze filled with lust and passion and I assumed mine was probably the same. He brought up a hand a wiped the string of saliva off of his mouth, a smirk on his lips. He seemed uncaring on any of his looks at the moment.

I was a little taken back, "What?"

He chuckled and began to leave the dressing room, "Practice."

I stood there dumbfounded as the curtain fell quietly and a few drifting squeals reached my ears from fellow shoppers.

Blinking, I faced the mirror and reddened even more than my current flushed state at the sight of my slightly swelled lips and dribble flowing down my mouth. Hastily wiping it away and fixing my attire - the trousers now just a little too tight for comfort - I sighed angrily.

Practice? Of all things. Practice.

I would have ranted and growled and perhaps cursed a few words, but my thoughts dispersed to slight sadness and loneliness as a thought drifted in.

He doesn't want a relationship. It was all for later, for the party. He would never love someone like me.

Besides, I don't think I could ever like someone like me either.

As I left the room, the familiar feeling of worthlessness and loneliness followed me like a dark cloud.

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><p><em>Edit: Alright, I added a little bit here an there. I realized I didn't mention much of Sherlock's injury - his broken ankle - too much and since it plays a part in the next chapter I had to revise this a little. Oh! For your information, I have researched if a person can walk on a broken ankle and it is possible. Mainly because people always assume it is a sprain and since it looks much the same with the discoloration and all, sometimes it's assumed such. But that's a tangent. Yes, he can walk on his ankle. Don't worry dears, I have been working hard on chapter 21 and it will be beautiful. Ah... well, beautiful in my sense. ^^~<em>

_It's very very **very** vague how John's feelings change from half and half with flatmate and crush to actual uncommitted crush. I hope to fix that eventually when I have more time... ugh I need a early release day at my school so I can just sit and correct things. ^^"_

_Alright. Before I get a few questions, I know it appears John is getting better, correct? Yes, in theory, he is getting better. At least, he is in a more secure mindset than before. However, in most psychological and mental cases there is a relapse that will occur before a significant improvement appears. What you read at the end of this chapter, dear readers, was John's hint of a future relapse._

_It's not going to be pretty, but when is it ever?_

_Also! FIRST KISS SCENE EVER. I have never ever written a kissing scene. Ever. This is my first time winging it and I don't know how good I did. Poor John. He thinks it's real and then Sherlock says "Practice" and he just falls down. _

_Expect more "practice" sessions._

_Anyhow, review, read, follow, favorite. Whatever you like._

_Ciao~_


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: God this chapter. This freaking chapter. I swear I had it done and it was long before editing and only got longer after it. It was tedious but as I got to the end I felt the need to stay up really late so I could upload it for all of you! 12000 words. That's a lot for me guys since I have been doing nothing but 5000 to 8000 worded chapters for the past few. _

_Okay, because I have a feeling that this specific individual had a toll on my long chapter, I want to thank fictionfairytalesfantasy4921 for your absolutely lovely review. I have thanked you a lot in my replies, but the moment I read your review I felt the need to try and not disappoint you! Especially since you thought my story was good and I think it is rubbish! ^^ Thank you, my dear._

_So, long chapter. A lot of errors no doubt. A lot of... other stuff here and there. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock_

* * *

><p>Muse Ch. 21<p>

The "practice" didn't stop there as I thought it would. It seemed Sherlock wanted to pursue those "sessions" even further. Each different in action but no less frustrating for myself. He saw it as practicing for the future party. I, however, saw it as a cruel sense of humor that fate had set upon me.

His expression may have portrayed some sort of passionate expression, but I knew it wasn't real. None of it was. The touches or whatever nonsense he decided to deliberately spiel every now and then. Every time, it was no less easy for me. Every time, I wanted to tell him about my possible feelings for him. But I didn't. I never did. I endured it in silence or small amounts of teasing.

Because the second I confessed those thoughts I knew something would change. Perhaps I was being selfish for this but I didn't want some sort of bloody wall separating us simply because of his scientific mind and my "human" one. It was preposterous. So I played along with his little acts. It was easier being completely ignorant to being overly-sensitive.

When he insisted that I hold his hands up to the flat, I did. Without complain. Without cursing. Without staggering glares. No, I let his large hand intertwine with my own and mused over how his hand was like a skeleton. I was not thinking nearly the same notions in my mind. It was elsewhere. I couldn't help the thought that his hands felt nice and secure when they intertwined with my own. An anchor to the dark cloud.

The same one that has been following me for a while now. I was waiting for it to hit me with rain, but every time it rumbled Sherlock would do something that acted as an umbrella to its depressing waves of anxiety and apprehension. It was the bitter sweet feeling of his little "sessions". Again, a cruel sense of humor might I say.

When his fingers lingered lovingly on my forearm as he told me he would place my attire on my bed, I ignored the fact that those warm fingers still left traces when it was gone. It was as if my eyes had little heat sensors that noticed his warm padded finger tips on my arm when they were no longer there. I simply cursed my stupidity and placed it aside.

I had little rest from his pursuits. Wrapping his arm around my waist or kissing my cheek. He had a list of acts and they were front and center when he needed them. I wished desperately to have the sight to peer into his mind so I could have at least prepared myself but I was only human. For once, I actually regretted it. I suppose people weren't necessarily wrong when they said that nothing hurts more than lingering on unreciprocated love.

My shower was the only brief period of relaxation and melancholy for the crushed, unrequited feelings I felt. A place for introspection and placing my priorities in order.

Afterward it resumed with him kissing my forehead as he went to take his shower. I rubbed furiously at the spot afterwards, hoping to get rid of the feeling with it. After a while the feeling hadn't faded and I had a red mark on my forehead full of irritated skin from my actions.

I dressed slowly and was fixing the cuffs when Sherlock came in with only his trousers on. A towel was draped around his neck, catching all drops of water that dripped from his drying locks. He had a purple shirt in his hand regardless of the fact that I said I would choose. I didn't complain and instead rose my brow at him, questioning his judgment. I would never admit that the shirt was one of my favorites.

Peering at the shirt a little longer, I felt a giggle slip through my throat as I noticed a small detail he seemed to have missed.

"You do know that the shirt is inside out, don't you Sherlock?" I snickered slightly and Sherlock furrowed his brow. He didn't look confused. He looked somewhat annoyed actually. For some reason that made it a little funnier than it probably should have been.

"Yes," he replied stiffly.

"And you are fine with that I'm going to assume?"

He grimaced, "For your information, I find the sewn edges and collar rather uncomfortable and irritable. It rubs against my neck awkwardly and feels like sandpaper is scratching against my body with every movement I make. I don't see how you can stand it."

I couldn't help it. I laughed at his discomfort.

"What?" He demanded and his distant gaze turned to a glare.

I shook my head, "Nothing. I'm just finding it really something that of all things to have bothered you, it is the seams of clothing - and shirts at that. For some reason that doesn't seem to fit your character." I giggled a little more and Sherlock sighed. His glare softened and I thought I saw a faint smile. Wait, no. That has to be my imagination.

Well, imagination or not, I needed to go help this incapable detective before he does something even more… interesting.

Walking over to the tall man, I huffed at his height and moved him over to my little desk chair where I forced him to sit. He gave little resistance and sat quietly. Grabbing the shirt, I draped it over the back of the chair and grabbed the towel. I threw it over his head and began to scrub his head of all water. He muttered noises of annoyance but made no move to stop me.

While he tried to brush his hair, I began to turn the shirt right side in, regardless of the complaints next to me. He cursed every time he felt a knot in his locks and I would chuckle as I fumbled with the buttons he somehow managed to loop inside out.

Did he button these things first and then turned them inside out? No, that couldn't be it. He still had to put this shirt on and these shirts fit quite tightly on his form. No way could he have managed that. Then how did he…?

I began to growl angrily as one little button refused to come out. Really. One. The last one. The others were hardly a challenge but this one was clawing at the hole with all its might.

Sherlock peered over the shirt at my twitching fingers, "Problem?"

"No no. Not at all," I sighed with irritation, "I just hate your habits is all." I continued to mutter but it was really only little curses and words that were pointless to understand.

Sherlock was thinking and I found myself meeting his eyes with a raised brow.

"Yes? May I help you?"

Sherlock grinned before leaning in to kiss me softly on the lips, not at all like the heated session in the dressing room. I blinked and was fighting the urge to lean in and deepen it. After a minute of my crumbling resolve and his persistence, he backed away with a confused expression.

"That's odd," he looked up at me in the eye and his expression went blank so I wouldn't see what he was possibly thinking of. I wasn't blind. I could tell he was analyzing what went wrong with his "session".

Might as well humor him.

"Hm? What's odd?" I questioned slowly as I attempted to control my heart rate and potential flushed face. I decided avoiding his stare was best and began working on the button again, pleased when it came out easier. The pleasure faded to a smidgeon of annoyance when I realized it Sherlock's kiss had possibly affected it. I began to question if my stress from earlier was what made it so difficult but Sherlock caught my attention with the one word you don't hear from him often.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" I scoffed. Yeah right. A child with crumbs on his face could lie better. "Sherlock Holmes. I'm not a bloody idiot. I know it's not nothing."

"It's nothing that pertains to you," he grumbled and I rolled my eyes.

"Yes but it pertains to you no doubt and I quite frankly don't trust you with yourself. If it is your problem then it is my problem. That is that." I got a glare but shrugged. His habits made me question leaving him alone even if it was "recreational".

"Later."

When I looked up, he was staring directly at me. I was a little disappointed at the void of emotion that was presented, but I expected it. He would never show his true feelings; especially to a man like me who is probably nothing more than a flat mate to him.

Still, the sincere way he said the word made it seem like it was a promise. Like he vowed to tell me what was on his mind. It was surprising and utterly relieving at the same time.

I felt something warm press itself against my cheek and fought the urge to flinch away. While I was distracted, Sherlock plucked the shirt out of my fingers and slipped it on with ease, only making minor grumbles to the uncomfortable seams it apparently had. He buttoned the little translucent buttons within seconds and had his last piece on within the following seconds. I quickly did the same and we looked ourselves briefly in the reflection of one of the windows.

"So, do we have names?" I questioned casually, avoiding the topic I knew was inevitable.

"Yes. Apparently I am Mr. Sanders and you are Mr. Daniels. Simple enough. We might as well start now so we react to them quickly, specifically you."

I nodded slowly, "Sounds good. What about the murderer? Anything on him you can observe off the top of your brilliant head Sher- er… Mr. Sanders?" I didn't like the way it rolled off my tongue. It was unnatural. Foreign. I'm sure mine was the same.

"Naturally he is craving attention. Not his first murder if he is so confident on this certain scene. Maybe his finale. Perhaps he's actually trying to get caught. That would be spectacular. Alas, the fact he has it planned and hasn't revealed any hints as to who he will conveniently kill, he is not too fond of being found out. He craves attention without people knowing that it is he they are looking for. Amateur."

"So this is all for the kicks and looks?" I asked him and he grimaced a little at my words. I didn't bother correcting myself and tugged on my collar slightly to loosen it instead.

"I was hoping for a better vernacular but yes. He is doing it for the attention and he is going to pull it off fantastically. Especially since nobody will suspect him anyhow." Glancing out the window, he spotted a black cab pulling up and motioned for me to follow him. Questions flew in the air as we descended the stairs.

"You speak like you know who he is or at least who to look for," I hastily mentioned and he smiled.

"You know me all too well Mr. Daniels. Yes, I do have a generalization as to who to look for. A brief, dry generalization that I would rather not make certain at this point. It's like giving an unproved theory if you will but that's beside the point. Now, I have to wait for him to present himself. I'm to going to derail him immediately." Closing the door behind us, I shook my head at his excitement but copied his grin.

"Well, Mr. Sanders, I must say that we will be having quite a night at this party now shall we?" Sherlock glanced at me before chuckling. He seemed to know something I didn't but he wasn't going to tell me. I hated it when he did that. Especially with this kind of case.

But I let him be, for once and only this once. After all, I felt any quarrels would end the fact he was holding my hand at this very moment. My pride was briefly locked behind a shuddering door just to keep this.

God I am becoming a stupid school girl if this pursues any further. Bloody hell.

Nonetheless, I didn't say anything and didn't make any expressions to show I knew we were holding hands. I didn't know when I would have the excuse to do this again after this event.

I sighed sadly and Sherlock squeezed my hand. That only made the sadness worse.

"Yes. Quite."

The party was absolutely stunning in a completely terrifying way.

The second we walked in, all eyes were trained on Sherlock and me in a mixture of curiosity and confusion. It might have been the fact that Sherlock had his arm secured around my waist or the possibility that he was undeniably stunning in his simple, orthodox attire. I've lost count how many females zeroed in on him in lust however it would soon change to disappointment when they saw our "relationship".

Ha, relationship.

It wasn't even fair this relationship. The smiles and other affectionate nonsense was all an act. I don't know where the change of "flatmate" to "futile crush" occurred, but now it was taking its toll. Clearly he wasn't getting any signals of my current situation. Perhaps because I wasn't acting at all different from my usual personality. I have the military profession to thank for that I suppose.

I wasn't jealous of those he shared smiles with, thank god. I'm not the kind of person. I didn't mind people staring at him at all really but that was probably because I knew Sherlock would never get into a relationship at all, broad or male. Nobody would ever suit him.

And that conjecture includes myself.

Nonetheless, I couldn't help but to be angry at my heart for falling for a man who prefers experiments and decomposed body parts to flesh and blood that is still pumping freely.

A squeeze pulsed through my hand and I felt it clench my heart 100 times harder. Damn it. I looked at him, the mixture of paranoia and annoyance falling behind a facade. For some reason I felt too many people knew about us, about the pretense this relationship had. There were too many eyes, and too many curious glances. Thoughts of being found out followed suit.

'_A small panic attack,'_ my mind supplied helpfully but solemnly. '_You need to calm down before you make a scene. Sherlock will know. Would you like him too?'_

My breath hitched but it was so faint that nobody would have noticed it. You could compare it to the sound of perhaps the volume of padding silently across the floors. Silent in the sense that it is only heard if you zero in on it. I have done the same to my panic attacks over time. This because I have practiced this. For a while.

'_But you still haven't lessened them have you?'_ No, I suppose not. According to Sarah, they should have lessened to one every few months by this point but it's still the same. She is probably thinking it is Sherlock's fault and that may be true but I am also at fault for I follow him willingly and with adrenaline filled veins.

'_Those same veins that are coursing panic and fear?'_ The very same veins that constrict when I think of Sherlock's expression and reaction to my mild attack.

But I could never fool the otherwise oblivious detective.

When my attack started, I could feel my pulse quickening thickly. Each vibration coursed through me like the sea, wave after wave, each bigger than the last. The steps that were so steady and placid before were now sluggish and a tad off center. A path was created and it was going to result in a falter. I still tried to act normal, but it is hard when your body seems to be so bloody against you tricking others.

"John? What's wrong?" And he thought I was going to be the one to mess up on names? Now we will definitely be found out if we haven't already. Paranoia was slithering like a snake around my lungs and throat and it made it difficult to breathe. Too difficult.

People were murmuring and pointing and every finger felt like it was somehow on me. A misdirected arrow. I felt cornered. The snake licked my cheek to elicit the past into my present. It was a brief moment, but it still created a larger wave to flow through my veins unsteadily. This was like when Moran came up to me. Like the accusatory higher operatives who still generally believe him despite what they expressed.

Sherlock didn't slow down at all from before. He kept a normal speed and ushered me quietly through the crowd. Blurs of artificial beautiful women and fake handsome men passed by in a string of color and black.

"John. Focus." That is what I have been doing. Am I not doing it well enough? Will it be my fault? Again? No, quit those childish thoughts! You're a soldier, no, a captain. You are captain John Hamish Watson and declining down to the status of a humble creature is not who you are. "You're not in danger. You're not around the captains. You are here. With me. At this harmless party with idiotic and boring women and even more tedious men. Here, think of my hand as an anchor." He was actually being considerate. Why now of all times. An act?

Even though my thoughts were tearing his words to shreds and half the meaning they contain, I still hung on every word and listened to him. His voice was soft but stern. So low that only I could hear him. With every pause in his phrases he would squeeze my hand. I never returned the favor, wanting to keep personal and work as far from each other as I could manage.

After a few minutes I relaxed and my vision began to clear up. Paranoia still ate at me but not as much and certainly not as obvious.

'_A mild attack'_ Yes that was a mild attack. A mild attack and yet I have a feeling that to Sherlock that was a serious one since I never let him catch me successfully in the middle of one. Now, I didn't have that shroud. Thank god clarity was beginning to sharpen my mind and lock my fears away temporarily. If I was acting odd before, I must have looked even more suspicious since I was now smiling amiably and nodding my head to those who gave me questionable looks.

That was good because Sherlock was watching me carefully. Like he was the doctor of the pair. Like he knew what he was doing and knew exactly what to say. I didn't like it. This sort of stand was in my expertise and I didn't like to be looked down in that sort of light. I preferred the detective's "look of disdain", not a textual mutual concern.

I was about to tell him I was perfectly and undoubtedly fine, but a familiar face showed up. I fought against my habits of flinching from sudden contact when a finger traced my cheek and jaw line. Not a second later red lips and a pixie cut followed with a beautiful woman in a long red gown made only for the red carpet. Of course, I valued her danger more than beauty so I didn't fall for the leer she offered. Far from it.

"Bonjour Mr. Sanders and Mr. Daniels," the words formed on her lips like she has known us for a long time. They didn't falter or grimace. "Enjoying the service I hope? I personally wished we had better musical entertainment," she looked directly at me, "but I suppose this dainty, unattractive tune will have to work."

Sherlock and I smiled but it was all an act. We have to show we were friends for the sake of this case.

"Miss Dubois," I greeted slowly, performing the customary kiss on the hand for women of her stature. I swear I saw Sherlock grimace but that was probably because he saw no purpose in me performing such actions. Yeah that's it. I still made a smug grin when I peered over and his lips were tightened. In a way, it could have counted as an act since I was his lover at the time.

And lovers tease each other, do they not?

'_Stop thinking those sort of thoughts, John. It is completely not what you should be concentrating on. That being looking normal and not like you were a soldier assumed MIA and forgotten'_

Right. The case. Acting normal. Taking a deep breath, I sighed and replaced my passive face with a smile.

You have to play this right, Watson.

"Miss Dubois," I rephrased with an amiable tone in my voice, "How have you been?" I attempted for common talk, but it seems Sherlock was on a whole other tangent from what I aimed for. Then again we were never on the same page to begin with.

"Miss Dubois please refrain from making a scene. I would rather get on with the case than try and 'Look the part'. Do you have any suspects for this case? Any of which I should be concerned of and determine?" He didn't say it loudly, but I still scowled at him for practically revealing who he was without outright saying his name. So subtle. Let me tell you this one.

Miss Dubois didn't seem to be bothered by it. In fact, she seemed actually pleased that he wanted to get into this quickly.

"There are too many to decide upon Mr. Sanders."

Sherlock scowled deeply at this, "I don't have all night Miss Dubois. You want me to decide who this supposed mystery murderer is? You will have to present me with a body."

Almost as if on a cue, a scream rang out. None of us hesitated in wondering what it was of because we were gone in an instant, Sherlock leading the way. When all three of us rushed to the location, it was in one of the bedrooms. The class didn't matter nor the decorations in the extremely lavished room. No, everything was on the victim who was currently sprawled on a bed.

It wasn't a gruesome murder. Quite the contrary, it seemed fit for a presentation.

A male, possibly not older than his mid-20s, was lying on his back on the comforter. In his heart was a meat cleaver. No signs of struggle. No other evidence except that this murderer seemed to have tastes for design and presentation as mentioned before. The blood that seeped around the body was previously used with maybe a paint brush to create intricate swirls around the wound and corpse.

That being said, it wasn't the murder that seemed off. It was the people who viewed it. No one shed a single tear for the man or murmured how he was possible great. Nobody looked like they cared. Yes, they were surprised. Yes, they thought it absolutely strange. No, they didn't really care about anyone who wasn't themselves. All I heard was "Will I be next?" or "Will this affect the stature and rate of the party?" It was pitiful and disgusting.

But that was the royalty and those in high places. It makes me increasingly glad that I never became subjected to this sort of emotionless torture.

Sherlock didn't seem to care, as expected, and immediately walked towards the body. Everybody didn't seem to pay attention to him. Most had dwindled out and only the staff remained. One, a stout looking woman, seemed almost as disturbed of the murder and state of the attendants as I was. She was the only one to actually deliver effective orders which were mainly to call the Yard and have them bring a squad. She was about to get Sherlock away from the body, but I stopped her.

"He's a... detective. Trust me. If anybody will find your murderer, it will be him." She eyed me for a moment, looking for something I must have lacked compared to the others – no surprise there – before nodding and walking out the room to meet the eventual Yard officers.

"You forgot something Mr. Daniels."

I met his gaze, surprised, "And what would that be? I didn't even think you would be listening since a body was placed with a ribbon at your doorstep."

He rolled his eyes, "It's nearly impossible when all the idiocy wouldn't shut up for five seconds. Too much stupid in the room makes for an invalidated thesis and pointless clues. Anyhow, you got my title wrong. I'm not a simple detective."

"I know. I know. You are a consulting detective. The only one in the entire world," I spoke exaggeratedly and I saw a small smile quirk at his lips while he inspected the body.

I watched him walk around the bed slowly, looking above and below the furniture as if looking for something. He probably was. I decided to remain where I was. If he needed my input, I will give it but he appeared to have it under wraps.

"What would you make of this, Mr. Daniels?" Sherlock proposed, not moving away from the corpse. Nearing it myself, I began my own prognosis.

"He was killed by the meat clever in his heart. Since his skin is still bodily temperature, I would assume this happened no longer than 10 minutes previous to our arrival. The man seems to have no health ailments or deficiencies to speak of. Lastly, judging by the lack of damage on his hands or other, he didn't put up a fight on the intruder but I would assume he was possibly going to sleep." I peered up to Sherlock and he nodded. His eyes were analyzing everything this body had that I couldn't see. I took this as a cue to back away for the moment until he is ready.

"I suppose speaking to him in this state is pointless?" Turning around, Miss Dubois was leaning elegantly against the entryway, pursing her lips in thought.

"Like speaking to a deaf man," I agreed habitually.

She hummed in response and walked over to the deducing detective. I was about to stop her when she softly spoke, "What do you see Mr. Sanders? Do you see murder or do you see a reliever?"

Remaining silent, I observed silently. I was curious myself and... maybe it will help me get over this stupid crush if I realize he doesn't recognize people as people. On the other hand, it could get worse

"Neither. I don't see murder nor do I see a boredom 'reliever' as you put it. I see a man who has clearly been killed by an individual in the culinary arts. That's neither murder nor relieving." I smiled at his response. Poker face as always but his mouth also twitched upwards when he glanced in my direction.

And my heart stayed where it was. Damn it.

"Ah, good answer Mr. Sanders. Very good," she looked directly at me and I knew she had him answer this for my benefit. I didn't trust her. She certainly didn't care for me, of all people. I didn't see her objective in this. "Now I must return to the party. It seems I have quite a few people who wish to try and woo me as you say. Quite pathetically might I add."

She was about to walk out when she paused and looked at us, "Oh, and please don't let any of the attendees touch the body. To vaguely put it, I don't believe words will keep them out." We didn't have to question what she meant. It was obvious. Painfully clear.

With a little wave of her hand, she was gone in a blink of red.

"Bloody hell," I cursed, sighing. "Why now of all times? Mr. Sanders, you don't have to do it. It's fine. Let's just think of something to tell the staff and -" I stopped mid-sentence when I felt the air leave me, my body backed up against the wall.

"Yes, but I suppose this would be easier," he mused emotionlessly. I said nothing, trying to keep my thoughts off his beating heart against my chest, his warm skin, his blue eyes, and the familiar scent of coffee that never left him. Damn it. Does he know that this isn't fair? Because it isn't. Definitely isn't. He's a bloody detective. He probably knows I feel this way by this point and is teasing me. Damn him. Damn this. Damn Miss Dubois.

But I didn't push him away. I probably should have but I didn't.

"How would it be easier? Just think of something to say. Deduce their life story," I huffed, noticing Sherlock getting closer. I couldn't back away, the wall pressing against my back.

"Ah, but how do they say it? A picture is worth a thousand words?" He smirked and I sighed, defeated.

"Fine. But once they are gone, we stop." I glared at him and his sly grin only seemed to widen as he nodded.

Here we go. More "practice". I can't wait for this case to end.

He lowered his lips and rotated his head, kissing me slowly. Those lips molded against my own, moving against my own. His hands were loosely hanging on my waist. My arms once again adjusted to hang over his shoulders but not quite around his neck. It was sweet and soft this kiss. So unlike the one we shared at the store earlier today. The polar opposite.

I wouldn't have minded it if it stayed at this level but Sherlock had other plans.

"If we want to scare the staff away, we will have to be more active than this, John," he spoke gruffly as he moved away for breath and I tightened my lips before finally nodding.

His lips attacked my own once more except it wasn't the softness I mentioned earlier. It was rough but not sloppy. It was like two tides fighting and right now Sherlock was becoming a victor. Growling into the kiss, I pressed myself against him, tightening my arms around his neck for leverage. Sherlock groaned and I found that to my advantage.

Smiling into the kiss in victory, I moved away from the kiss and pushed down the collar of Sherlock's shirt, exposing his pale, unblemished skin underneath. My lips attached to one area along his neck and I felt Sherlock's attitude change. Nipping the skin and suckling in harshly, I could hear both of our hearts.

"You are doing a fantastic job at this, Mr. Daniels," Sherlock remarked breathlessly as I continued to bruise his skin.

I didn't even hear the door open.

"Oh my!" I smiled against his skin as I heard the gasp. I didn't have to open my eyes to know that the little woman from earlier was standing there, conflicted on whether to retrieve the body or to leave us be. For effect, I pressed myself against Sherlock's body, eliciting a groan from the older man as he continued to let his fingers roam.

That seemed to do the trick.

"I- I will-" she hesitated for a moment before I heard the door close. I was expecting the kiss to end whenever she did so, but it didn't.

Coaxing my face back up to his, he continued to kiss me. Part of me was very aware that we didn't need to do this anymore and the other was conflicted over whether it really mattered.

Sherlock's tongue explored my mouth, pulling my jacket off of me and feeling around the shirt he got for me earlier. He looked like he wanted to remove that too, but that's when rationality and fear gripped me. The scars. Those ugly worded scars. I can't let him see those. Not now.

Breaking the kiss, I observed his flushed face with a smirk, amused. He was a good kisser and an even more impressive actor if that was all an act.

"Door. Woman. Gone." My words came in breaths and I knew my face was as red as his if not more. That didn't bother me though. All I cared was that he stopped this so he wouldn't go any further.

But he hesitated.

It was brief. Very brief. But it was there. A second, like he was actually thinking of continuing, before nodding.

"Yes. Perhaps we should get Miss Dubois. I would assume we have bought ourselves half an hour at most with our act. That should be more than enough for whatever she has planned."

Sherlock backed away from me, fixing his shirt and adjusting a few rogue strands of hair. I slipped my jacket back on and did the same, taking deep breaths to hopefully relieve my face of its red tint.

A knock was heard and not a second later Miss Dubois walked in. She was smirking at us.

"I heard that two young men were supposedly performing a very lewd act in front of a supposed dead man. I wanted to make sure you still had your clothes on." Any redness that left my face immediately came back in a thick wave of embarrassment.

"Yes, well-" Miss Dubois tsked at me, those lips never altering.

"Don't try to think of an excuse Mr. Daniels. It would be pointless." Again with the look. Instead of looking away, I glared back at her. Sherlock looked between us before he sighed in annoyance.

"Please, can you both wait until after the case before you go off on some unnecessary tangent?" He glared pointedly at Miss Dubois and I wanted to snicker but felt it was too childish right now.

"Ah... fine. If you will Mr. Sanders. I assume that you have a lead then? There would be no other reason that you would be so anxious to leave is there?" She grinned and Sherlock stiffened. "Oh, but if you must leave, so be it. Be on your merry way then. I will remain here with the body."

Sherlock and I glanced wearily from the body to Miss Dubois and she sighed dramatically.

"Really. What do you expect me to do to this cold, very much dead young gentleman? I'm not that desperate I hope you boys know." She grinned snidely at our embarrassed faces and we left without another word or thought.

Right in time to hear yet another scream.

"Are they going to scream every time there is a bloody murder?" I grumbled, annoyed. It wasn't even a normal scream. It was that movie screen scream. The one that you know is fake. Just like everything else here.

"They are ordinary, bland people Mr. Daniels," Sherlock mused aloud though his features were also in distaste to the awful scream, "Just ignore them. That's what I do. Give them more attention than they deserve and they will leech off of you."

_Just like you to me_ I added silently.

When we arrived to the door, it was in the ballroom. Well... one of them. It was supposedly the one for the grand finale so-to-speak.

Now, I'm sure they will have to change it.

Once again people were murmuring and once again it was about none other than themselves. They bickered and prodded and asked impossible questions. Sherlock and I ignored them as we squeezed in to see the murder first hand.

"It appears our murderer really insists on presentation, doesn't he Mr. Daniels?"

Indeed he did. The ballroom, decorated in the palest of tones as well as white washed furniture and curtains appeared to be the backdrop to this sickening scene. If this were an art piece, the young woman hanging from the chandelier would definitely be the emphasis.

Before us hung one of the largest chandeliers I have ever seen. It was glistening in silver and the shining jewels draping from the sides were like diamonds. It was truly spectacular compared to the person underneath.

Around the victims throat was a chain. It was a little tarnished but in otherwise perfect condition. The hook at the bottom of the chain, however, was attached to another chain wrapped securely around the young woman's throat. She must have been in her late teens by the looks of it. Her neck was clearly snapped and her face and body was beginning to enter cyanosis from lack of oxygen. White roses spattered with a few red drops from the hook digging too deep were meticulously decorated around her face and body. One of her shoes had fallen off and shattered. A glass slipper.

_Who ever thought that Cinderella would have a twisted side _I thought aimlessly before clearing my thoughts from the random tangent. I couldn't see much from how high she was, but clearly the stunning blonde hanging limply from the ceiling had died exactly like it looked. By hanging.

And again, I would guess no longer than 10 to 20 minutes ago.

Sherlock seemed to come to the same conclusion and after a second more nodded before grabbing my hand and dragging me through the crowd of onlookers and to a quieter area. Entering a hallway, he led the way to one of the many unlocked doors in this place. Another bedroom. He shut the door and locked it.

"Mr. Sanders?" I questioned. I attempted to figure out why he took us here and came to a conclusion when Sherlock responded.

"It's nothing, John. I just needed somewhere to think without all those buzzing and cries echoing in my head. It's nearly impossible trying to do so in their presence."

"Then why do you need me?" I relaxed on the bed behind me, fatigue already settling in even though it has only been two hours.

"For moral support."

I rose my brow at him and he rolled his eyes.

"And maybe for some input if needed." I nodded, liking that answer more than the previous.

"So, who is our murderer, Mr. Sanders?" I asked, not expecting an answer.

"How about you tell me?" I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard him respond. It was closer than before. Much closer. How the hell did he get beside the bed that quietly? Cursing my beating heart, I sighed angrily and glared at him. He looked back innocently. Yeah right.

"Well, it seems the murderer likes to make his victims into pieces of art. Maybe he's an artist but I haven't seen any here so maybe not. Perhaps one of the staff? He's only going after young victims so far, but I suppose that doesn't point to anything. He is craving attention like you said earlier but as for who he is and what he does, I am probably wrong."

Sherlock leaned his chin against the comforter on the bed, closing his eyes in thought. I fought the urge to run my hands through his hair and decided to just watch him, those dark locks mocking me.

"You are, as always, getting better but not nearly as well as I. Yes, this man cares for presentation, but it is not one of an artist. There is a distinct difference in how he presents them. It's like they are a meal on a platter. He wants them to be viewed upon to satiate the boredom of the crowed and in turn, fulfill his own desires. He's one of the staff, but I would imagine he works in the kitchens. The hooks hanging the woman earlier, for example. They are used to hang meat in a locker to keep cool. The knife that stabbed the young man? A cleaver for the same thing. Meat. Therefore, he is a chef that specializes in the presentation of all meals concerning meat as the main course."

When his eyes opened, I saw them light up before returning to normal.

"Extraordinary."

"As you like to point out constantly," he added but it wasn't in distaste. He sounded pleased actually.

After laying on the bed for a few minutes, I looked over at Sherlock. His eyes were already trained on me.

"So what now? Do we go look for the man?"

Sherlock sighed, "Oh no. Not yet. We haven't found anything to completely distinguish himself from the other chefs in the area. If I am correct, there are 13 chefs pertaining to meat. We can't go to every single one therefore waiting is the only option."

"Another person is going to die for us to narrow it down," I deadpanned.

He didn't reply. I took it as a yes.

"Is there... was there any way you could have deduced what he looked like? Anything?"

He tilted his head to the side a little, "There were black hairs at the crime scene of the first murder and a few prints in the fake snow dotting the floor for the second indicating a man of five feet at least judging from his steps and stride. This still does not point to the murderer though. There are exactly 8 people of the 13 who fit this description and I will not perform a guessing game." He grimaced and I frowned.

"Guessing is better than letting another person die," I muttered.

Silence followed and I assumed Sherlock was in his mind palace, thinking over the cases.

A hand traced my palms and up my arm to my cheek, cupping it. When it forced my face away from the ceiling, I was met with the striking blue eyes of the detective. He looked conflicted and I didn't know why. Perhaps he was in a state of confusion over a piece of evidence he acquired.

That still didn't explain why he was acting this way.

"Just practice," he murmured before kissing my on the lips again. It was the same as last time except it stayed that way. It was slow and passionate. The earlier coffee taste had already worn off but I didn't mind. Rising from the bed and resting on my weight on my elbow, I tilted my face up, deepening the kiss. Internally, I was cursing my body to hell for acting this way but knew I couldn't change it.

My heart was racing like all the other "practice" sessions we had. My head was growing lighter from the lack of breathing. My fingers and toes tingled and my hunger grew. I wanted to go further but I knew my limits. Just barely.

I let my tongue run along his bottom lip, savoring its taste. Gently nipping the tender flesh, I was felt something fuel me when he gasped. Growling, he leaned against me, pushing the kiss further. Once again our fight for dominance was on and once again it was a close call. Our tongues meshed together with frustration and want, never faltering. Breaths became heated and quick and I felt heat hit me like a wave.

That's when things took a quick turn.

It was so quick that I had no time to prepare for it. With a push, Sherlock pushed me down, crawling onto the bed and straddling me between his legs. He didn't give me a moment to reply before leaning in once more, stealing my breath away. His lips were like poison, his tongue the dart. I felt intoxicated though that could have been oxygen. Either way, my will was dissolving.

Breaking the kiss, he began to mark my neck, nipping the flesh before licking it gingerly. It was always finished off with a kiss, like an unsaid apology. It was cruel and unfair to my body. Short gasps responded to his motions and I felt like I was heating up. Did the air conditioner fail? Or was it us?

He proceeded to unbutton my shirt, exposing my chest. I briefly remembered my scars and attempted to hide them with my arms but Sherlock shook his head.

"They don't mean anything." The words might have seem cold and distant, but they made me feel better for the moment. I knew it would disappear later, but I treasured it, moving my hands to grab his face, pulling it back to my own. He obliged, letting me take the lead in exploring his mouth. I felt special since I know not many people get to do this to Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. I felt like his kryptonite.

God that was such a cliché school girl way of thinking this.

He let go of my lips, nipping the bottom lip harder than I had earlier. I gasped and he smirked as he lowered to run his tongue over my skin. I shivered, desire coursing through my veins. It was amazing although the back of my mind was trying to figure out what reason there was to this. He did say practice.

Then a knock was at the door and everything ended. Growling at the interrupter, Sherlock got off me quickly, fixing himself up once more before stalking to the door. I took this as a chance to fix my own attire. By the time Miss Dubois walked in, we were both normal although my trousers felt tighter than they should be and my face was probably the color of a tomato.

"Bonjour boys," I didn't have to translate her look to know she knew exactly what she interrupted and enjoyed the fact that she did so. I was a little disappointed that when I looked at Sherlock he didn't seem nearly as annoyed as I was.

Stupid head. Practice. It was all practice. Of course he wouldn't care.

"I assume you both were too into yourselves to know that another murder was just performed?" Sherlock's eyes immediately became more alert and before he could utter the words, she moved from the doorway with a, "Next hallway over, third door on the right. Oh, and please keep your hands off one another, hm?" She snickered as Sherlock once again grabbed my hand and we practically ran down the hallway. I didn't mention the fact that he hadn't let go of my hand.

When we arrived at the scene, I could see Sherlock's brows twitch in annoyance. I could see why. The way this victim was killed is not one of his favorite methods due to lack of evidence and, well, everything.

The man, or that is what I depicted from the incredibly charred face shape and bone structure of the body, was incinerated to put it lightly. It was like someone doused him in alcohol and then threw a match to watch it burn. Once again, he was decorated with what appeared to be red roses this time. The murderer didn't seem as into it, but what do I know? I'm a simple detective's blogger.

"Mr. Sanders?" I spared a glance in his direction and saw him scowling at the murder. He looked heavily unsatisfied. Not even lasting longer than a minute more, he motioned for me to follow him out of the room.

I prepared myself for a rant and that is surely what I received.

"People can be so dull and unimaginative, Mr. Daniels! While the stab and hanging was interesting and unique, killing someone with some sort of combustion represents laziness and a meek mindset. I had so much hope for this criminal, Mr. Daniels, and it appears he is no different than the others. I'm heavily disappointed. Do all of these criminals come from the same apple tree? If so, I must say they fell far away from it to not gain a smidgeon of knowledge on the common crime." While he walked and talked, I merely nodded and agreed every so often. I didn't bother telling him he was acting like a child and was attracting the wrong sort of attention because of his acceptance of murderers and crimes. I didn't mind if the high-status individuals completely ignored us after hearing him and hoped for it.

After a minute the loud exclamations were reduced to ashes and grumbles from the detective. I knew one word would spike his motivation and vigor once more so I decided to avoid it.

"How about we go back to the entrance hall? I suppose we should begin talking to people who might have been witnesses." That was all he needed to get back into the murder.

"Ah, yes, you're right Mr. Daniels. Thank you."

Wait. Did he say that I was right? He's up to something. Last time he said something ridiculously nice to me, it ended up being part of some experiment he wanted me to be the subject of.

I stared at him, trying to figure out what he wanted to know now of all times, but it was like reading the cover of a book and it only being white and blank, the pages glued together to prohibit anything being seen. This couldn't be good but I knew better than to pry. He would only dig further into himself to hide it. I might as well wait it out. Again.

Our conversation halted as we opened the large doors leading to the entrance hall. It seemed that every attendee to this party had thought the same as us. All I could see were meters of heads and ridiculous looking hats. One look at Sherlock and I knew that he didn't want to even chance this but would for the sake of the murder. I, however, was not so sure. I didn't want to risk getting split up from Sherlock in here. Knowing his luck, the murderer would find him and I would have to somehow save him. Again.

"Mr. Sanders-" I started but was jerked by my hand when Sherlock took off into the crowd. I let him guide us. He found something worth going through this for so I should just let him do his thing for now. Maybe it will be useful.

As we neared the tables on the opposite side of the hall, I heard what Sherlock must have figured out.

"Oh! I swear I saw him. I would know a young man when I see one!" A shrill voice rang out over the murmurings and gazes of curiosity.

"But I didn't get caught, oh no. I was perfectly safe. If anything, I was raised right and my feet are as light as a feather I should know! Not sure about half the young ladies here these days," she scoffed and I was tempted to stay behind. I didn't think I would like this woman very much.

And I was right.

The woman was of stocky build, definitely living a nice, luxurious lifestyle. Her hair was white and wrinkles crowned her face, although none of them seemed to be from smiling or laughter. They were frowning lines like that of a disagreeable woman. She wore a dress that seemed a little too low cut but nobody mentioned this. Probably in fear of the elderly woman scolding them for their own tastes.

She didn't seem interested in speaking with anyone but when her eyes landed on Sherlock I noticed that familiar twinkle I saw at the beginning of the party. A playful and miserable attempt at an attractive smile stretched unnaturally around her face and I resisted the urge to shiver and look away. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked at her in the disdain she presented earlier and indifference. When she looked down, she noticed Sherlock's fingers intertwined with my own and glared at me like it was my fault that she can't have this man. If she only knew...

She didn't seem to falter at that obvious notion at all. In fact, she looked more determined. It was almost scary.

"I have not seen you attend any of the many lavished parties here," she spoke choppily, glancing in my direction every so often like she wished I would just disappear.

"No, I don't normally mingle with these type of people," Sherlock replied smoothly. I expected the woman to perhaps turn her molten gaze onto him but she surprised me. She grinned another artificial grin and chuckled. She actually laughed! And by Sherlock at that!

"Ah, yes. These people indeed. They have gotten further and further from proper traditions it seems. So many of these young women," she sniffed, sticking her nose in the air, "I would never mingle with them. They are absolutely rambunctious and not elegant in the slightest of manners."

"I agree," he answered coolly but he was clearly bored. I didn't envy him to have to talk to this woman. Not at all. Although I didn't like just standing here "looking pretty" as the saying goes. I was a man of action not passivity.

"I'm happy to see some men have retained their stronger roots," she attempted to charm but it washed off of him like it was rain on a windshield. "May I ask what your name is, dear? And I suppose your companion." She sneered the last part as if it left a bad taste in her mouth.

"I am Mr. Sanders. My partner for tonight's events is Mr. Daniels. Since I have given my name so readily, I expect you to do the same?" He said it like a question but it was clear to anyone with hearing that it was a statement.

"Very well. My name is Grace Du Maurier. Remember the name dear. I don't give it out as readily as I exempted to yourself."

He gave a small smile, "Very well, miss Du Maurier." I could almost hear him say _"Not that I personally care for your name nor any other."_

Miss Du Maurier looked at Sherlock with interest and then at me with the opposite expression. I met her gaze evenly and that seemed to please her for the moment before she met the eyes of the detective next to me.

"You have a strong man it seems, Mr. Sanders. I have never wavered towards marriage myself since all the suitors my father presented would always be absolute monarchs," she sniffed before adding. "Pardon me saying so, but this young man doesn't seem to meet the standards I would imagine a dashing man as yourself would have." Sherlock's hand tightened and I glanced at him questioningly. His smile was tense and forced.

"Ah, but my mate is one of the strongest men I have come to know, Miss Du Maurier. He was a captain and a well-renowned doctor in the military career. I'm sure you must admit that I couldn't have chosen a better man to suit my stature."

She looked intrigued, "Is this true?"

I nodded, offering a smile, "Yes madam. I suppose you could say I have grown used to bullets whizzing past my head and shouts ringing in my ears."

The way she looked at me was not like she viewed Sherlock, but it was almost like she saw me in a new light. I was suddenly bearable for her.

"If you don't mind me asking Miss Du Maurier, what were you saying earlier?" Sherlock spoke lowly. Like a switch, light filled her eyes and a smile to match. It still looked like it didn't want to be there.

"Oh you young ones. Curiosity is a fault you know. Nevertheless, I will indulge you. Come near, dears." We got a little closer to her as she murmured lowly.

"I saw the man. The one who killed the second murder! Well, not the face but I did see the body and what he was wearing," she took a break to drink her wine and take a small bite out of a biscuit. "He was very stylish might I say. Hair very fair and black. Pale. I think he was wearing glasses as well. But that's beside the point! There was one thing about the man that stuck with me because I haven't seen it too much."

"And that is?" Sherlock prompted. He inched his way closer to her as she spoke and I found myself rolling my eyes. I need to teach him personal space. Again. Not like this woman cared anyhow.

"He had this-" she rose her hand and squeezed her index finger and thumb to make a small motion but it stopped. All of a sudden, everything stopped for her. Her hands paused their movements and her eyes widened. Raising my hand to her mouth, I felt no air leaving her lungs. For a second I considered cardiac arrest but then she fell to the floor and began to go into a fit of spasms.

I crouched down next to her in an instant, ordering someone to tilt her head up and for someone else to call the local emergency response area. It came as an automatic response.

When I glanced back at Miss Du Maurier, I resisted the urge to flinch with the steeled muscles of a soldier. Just barely. Her gaze seemed like it could cut titanium if given the chance.

She was looking at me as if accusing me for the fact that I wasn't helping her. When I peered at Sherlock, he seemed at a state of shock and I realized I was the only one to attempt in helping her. I didn't know what she was suffering from but her pulse was practically nonexistent and no air was leaving her lungs. It was like she was gasping. It was all the scenario pin points I was to look for during CPR though I didn't know if it would even help.

It wouldn't hurt and it might even save her. I have no time to hesitate.

Thankful for the low cut dress, I placed my hands on her breastbone and began performing CPR. I was only at 15 compressions when I realized she was gone. I looked at her for a moment longer before releasing a heavy sigh.

I checked for the complimentary pulse and breaths but they were both void. She was dead. Another victim.

Sherlock met my eyes evenly and with no emotion. I probably should have been the same, but I suppose that was one of the many differences between us.

Standing, I looked at her and for once my heart didn't betray me by showing guilt and anger.

Sherlock's hand found mine and squeezed it. I returned it but it was weak.

"Rat poison," he murmured. "It was speckled on her biscuit. The white powder. She might have thought it to be powder sugar but it doesn't have the same consistency." I nodded silently as stared at where her body was while the people around us murmured and mumbled about the ungrateful woman.

All around her I heard a long list of dismays and negative comments. Even in death it seemed discrimination was inevitable.

"We should leave, Mr. Daniels," Sherlock murmured into my ear.

Nodding in jerked movements, I let him guide me away from the scene. The further we got, the easier it was for me to breathe and accept that she was as good as gone the second the poison was administered to her and that the only way I could avenge her was to find her murderer.

However, the further we got from the scene I noticed how annoyed Sherlock was. He was tense and his lips stretched into a thin line. He didn't like this trend and I didn't blame him. The second we got to the far corner of the hall, the farthest from the body, he let go of my hand and ran it through his hair. He kept looking around like he was looking for someone but he couldn't _see_ anyone.

His eyes searched among the crowd but I couldn't decipher where they were looking. It annoyed me that he wouldn't speak at all, but I suppose it was best. If people heard our conversations rumors would spread like a wild fire and that was the last thing we needed.

At last, he appeared to come to a conclusion.

"Mr. Daniels, I need you to stay here."

"Wait, what?!" I exclaimed, anger and a smidgeon of hurt filling me. _Stay _here? I don't trust Sherlock to be on his own. At all. Danger was like his best friend and splitting them apart was practically impossible. "Not going to happen."

"Mr. Daniels," he whined, staring at me like he thought it would change my mind, "Please. Just five minutes. Nothing more."

"No. Absolutely not," I responded firmly, glowering him down.

We had a staring match for what felt like hours but what was really a single minute. His was pleading and annoyance. Mine was anger and disbelief.

"Fine. Do you want to know what I am going to be researching? Will that change your mind?" He finally conceded exasperatedly.

I mulled it over, "Maybe."

Rolling his eyes, he bent his head and muttered quickly, "I suspect we have enough time in this party to have one more murder. Knowing this killer, he probably has an entire finale set up. The fifth murder, following the trend I have seen, will occur in roughly half an hour. I have an idea on who the killer is, but I need you to stay here and keep this crowd occupied so I don't have disturbances in my search. Better?"

"Much," I agreed. "If you needed me to be a distraction, you could have just said so."

The look Sherlock gave me was one of disbelief, "Really?"

"Yes, really. When you're being all mysterious with your antics and unsaid words I can't understand a bloody thing. I can't read your mind, you know. I'm definitely for helping you catch this guy. I don't know why you assume otherwise," I met his eyes and he averted his.

He took a deep breath, "Will you perform a distraction then?"

"Of course, but no longer than five minutes as you stated. What do you need me to do?" I asked simply.

Getting on his toes, he scanned the area until he found something. His face lit up and a smile crossed his features.

"There!"

I tried to see what he was pointing at but I was too short. "What?"

"There! The stage for the orchestra. It seems they have a regular acoustic guitar. You can play."

"I don't think they will let me on the stage to sing, Mr. Sanders," I sighed. Sherlock shook his head, a smile gracing his features.

"No, clearly. But! You can however go up and say you want to sing a song to the one you love or something of the sort. Go grand. Say you are thinking of proposing to my persona for instance." I felt my face redden but I nodded.

"Could work," I reasoned, "But what do you expect me to sing?"

"Oh I don't care about that!" he dismissed, waving his hand aimlessly, "Just keep them busy for at least five minutes. That will be perfect."

I looked uneasily at the stage and then the crowd before looking back at Sherlock like _"Do you see this? How would anything I sing appease these people?"_ I was surprised when he actually caught the look.

"Please, Mr. Daniels. It's simple. Just imagine they are not there. In fact, think of them as the passerbys on the street. Those who completely ignore you." I could tell he was trying to get me up there as quickly as possible, but he was still trying to make it comfortable.

"Why five minutes?" I asked, diverting the attention for the moment.

Sherlock gave me a look and I knew he caught my procrastination, "Because that will be enough for someone as myself to categorize every single person who works in the kitchen. Now stop avoiding the topic John and wasting the time I need to get this done." With a push, he knocked my forward. When I turned around he was gone.

Sighing, I wove my way through the sea of popularity. It was a trek full of pardons and dismayed glares. At last, the stage finally was in front of me. The orchestra must have been taking a break at the time because nobody was roaming the stage. I did, however, see a guard watching the stairs leading to the stage. He looked bored so maybe I can get on.

The man looked down at me with a raised brow when I appeared. I adjusted my posture to the recognizable military stance and steadied my voice. He was taller than me but by no means intimidating. On the outside I was calm, composed, and fearless. On the inside, however, I was the complete opposite. I was trying to figure out how to get by this man.

"Excuse me," I began, "Would it be allowed for me to play a song?"

The man looked me up and down before saying monotonously, "I'm sorry, sir. This stage is reserved for the orchestra playing tonight. If you want to play a song, you will have to reserve a time at the front podium." As expected.

I gave a sigh and looked around, trying to appear a little embarrassed, "Look here. I don't like to go against regulations, but I have a companion that I must confess to. It's really important and I think this will be my only chance. Will you please let me in? It won't take any longer than five minutes I assure you." I tried to sound desperate and attempted to place as much pleading as I could into my eyes. I didn't know if it was going to work but I'll be damned if I didn't at least try.

The guard seemed to be at a crossroads. I took this chance of hesitance in my advantage.

"Five minutes is all I am asking. I'm going overseas after this event and I want to tell her before I go." A lie. A full lie but it seemed to do the trick. Nodding to me, he moved aside and I hopped up the steps and scooped the guitar. I immediately disliked this guitar. It was mistreated and because of that, the strings were off and the tune was atrocious. But I only had five minutes so I quickly adjusted it, pulling a random song from a band I know. I suppose in this time frame a cover will have to do.

Ugh. Absolutely no originality. That's what he would say.

Walking over to the microphone, I adjusted the guitar. The people talked amongst themselves until I tapped it for their attention. Immediately all of their curious glances turned to look at me at once. Outside, I was smiling sheepishly but inside I was panicking and nervous. I didn't like all this attention. I wasn't used to it.

_Think of them as the passerbys on the street. The ones that completely ignore you._

Gradually, the scene changed and I was on the sidewalks. My suit changed to rags and my guitar wasn't mine but the one I got before I met Sherlock. I felt like Cinderella being reverted back to who she was before the spell. The rich and famous were mere businessmen and woman passing me by phoning their companies and family. The teenagers changed to college students. It converted and I was at the center, sitting on the bench in the freezing winter of London.

"I'm sorry to disturb you as I am sure you all have better things to hear than a man like myself sing, but I'm afraid that I will have to call for a bit of your time. You see, I have this companion of mine. She is beautiful and intelligent as can be. I'm horrible at telling her how I feel, but who isn't?" A few chuckles. Good. "So, instead I'm going to sing a song. My voice may be rubbish, but it's the thought that counts."

A few murmurs went through the crowd, but then it gradually fell to silence when I began to thrum my fingers against the strings, tapping my foot in a beat.

"_Just give me a second darling_

_To clear my head_

_Just put down those scissors baby, on this single bed_

_The sand in the hourglass is running low_

_I came through thunder, the cold wind_

_The rain and the snow_

_To find you awake by your windowsill_

_A sight for sore eyes and a view to kill _

_I broke down in horror at you standing there_

_The glow from the moon _

_Shone through cracks in your hair._

_I shouted with passion,_

_"I love you so much"_

_But feeling my skin, it was cold to the touch. _

_You whispered "where are you?"_

_I questioned your doubt_

_But soon realised, you were talking to God now_

_You've got blood on your hands_

_And I know it's mine_

_I just need more time_

_So get off your low and let's dance like we used to_

_But there's a light in the distance_

_Waiting for me, I will wait for you_

_So get off your low and let's kiss like we used to_

_I looked in the mirror_

_But something was wrong._

_I saw you behind but my reflection was gone._

_There was smoke in the fireplace_

_As white as the snow._

_A voice beckoned gently_

_'Now it's time to go'_

_A requiem played as you begged for forgiveness_

_"Don't touch me!" I screamed_

_"I've got unfinished business"_

_You've got blood on your hands_

_And I know it's mine_

_I just need more time_

_So get off your low and let's dance like we used to_

_But there's a light in the distance_

_Waiting for me, I will wait for you_

_So get off your low, and let's kiss like we used to"_

I hated doing covers but I was only given a minutes notice. I hoped this worked for Sherlock. It wasn't exactly five minutes, but it was in that range. Besides, if he was so smart he should be able to do it in three. Yeah, right. Now I am being childish.

Silence reigned the crowd in like sheep. I didn't know if it was good or bad but I realized I didn't really care. I didn't seem to notice the mirage fading back to the artificial party but now it didn't bother me. I helped Sherlock. I might have helped him catch a murderer in fact. These people will not see me as an aid in catching a murderer, but a lovesick fool.

Then the silence changed. Applause and a few cheers from here and there were heard and then more followed. I felt a small grin appear on my face. A few of the females at front were asking for another song but I shook my head. I was amazed. Incredibly so. I expected them to go back to their dainty biscuits and wine. Not actually break tradition and applaud for a minority such as myself.

Nearing the microphone, I could feel my grin widening, "Thank you for listening to my humble plea." Backing away, I place the guitar back on the stand and walked off the steps. The guard was grinning and nodded at me.

"You have talent, sir. That was some singing. If you can't get the girl from that voice, I don't think she is worth your time. Anyhow, if you want to sing again, you are welcome on this stage anytime." I thanked him modestly and was about to head for the exit when a man intercepted me.

"Sir! Mr. Daniels I believe?" The man looked familiar. Eerily familiar. After a second of this, I scolded myself. I have only met this man and I am being suspicious? I'm turning into that prattish detective!

"Yes?" I reply, hiding the annoyance I felt at myself.

"I have a wife and she is very sick. I hear you are a doctor so can you come see her?" I heard a slight Scottish accent but nothing too potent. His head stayed low, looking more so at the floor than at me. Maybe it was respect? I highly doubt it.

"Yes. Definitely. Lead the way." Without hesitation, he ran ahead. I was on his heels. We went up the first floor to the second and to the furthest room in the building. I thought it odd but didn't want to appear rude. Maybe they didn't like the social life. I couldn't blame them.

When we stopped at the door, I looked at the man. He was shaking.

"Sir? Are you okay? I'm sure I can-"

"Are you that much of an _idiot_?" It was only then I realized he was chuckling. Turning to face me, I finally caught every feature of his face. Using his sleeve, he wiped away all the make up on him from the over-exaggerated eyebrows to the mustache under his nose. After every inch was gone, he grinned at me and my skin paled.

_No._

"Moriarty? How-" I didn't get the chance to finish my sentence because with explosion of pain in the back of my skull, everything went black.

* * *

><p><em>The song is Unfinished Business by White Lies but I love the Mumford and Sons cover. Absolutely adore it. I had another song in mind before it but I decided to use it later.<em>

_So. How about all that kissing and all? I swear I never intended that much but then I got carried away. Trust me, Sherlock may be an absolute prick right now with taking advantage of John's feelings but next chapter you WILL see what he is thinking. He is about as confused as John._

_Speaking of John, his relapse is coming up. It's coming up soon and it's going to be awful._

_Also, for those of you who do not trust Miss Dubois, you deserve a reward because you get to see the reason why you should never trust her soon enough. Next chapter as well. There's a lot for the next chapter. A lot of things are going to happen. Sorry for any teasing here. I'm half asleep and its three and I really have no idea what I am thinking really. _

_Ah, yes, sorry for the long wait for this chapter. School is becoming tedious but not at all bad like last year. Chapter 22 is in the making! Working on it right now actually._

_... I think that is it for now. Sorry for all the kissing if that is not your thing. Not sorry about bring Moriarty back. God I love him so much. Too much._

_Well, read/follow/fav/review! Enjoy the story and thanks for following so far since I absolutely do not deserve it. At all._

_Ciao~_


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: I'm sorry. School has been utterly annoying and tedious as of late. I'm not going to bore you with all the details, but I was almost not going to post this until Christmas break. Luckily, I was able to finish editing it today. Just now actually. I apologize for any mistakes in this seeing as it is rather a quick chapter for me to hatch up all of a sudden. _

_I'm hoping to update Paint It Black with three chapters soon enough... I still need to get back into the habit. A lot of my teachers are giving me a lot of homework this week sadly so updates for that will have to be pushed off until Christmas break._

_On another note, would it surprise you to hear that this is actually almost at it's end? I have hatched out the skeletons for the next few chapters and it's actually going to be coming to a close. I still have a few more flashbacks to enter and a little bit more plot and Johnlock stuff, but for the most part? It's actually almost done guys. It doesn't seem that way now with this chapter, but yes. _

_Other than that, I hope you enjoy this horrible chapter. I wish I could have made it so much better but it seems that words have failed me and grammar even more so. You have been warned._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

* * *

><p>Muse Chapter 22<p>

_**Sherlock POV**_

John's voice filled the corridor I walked in almost instantly. Judging by the clarity, he didn't appear to harbor any sense of worry or fear in his voice. It vibrated off the walls of the bone-white walls and the marble floors. People brushed past me with few apologies in the direction of his voice. They were all curious who owned this voice and who had the audacity to sing such at a party like this. Curiosity and potent foolishness was almost visible among each and every single one of them.

Compared to them, I was much like a rock in a river, discerning the flow to go around me. I wasn't trying to go and see John sing because I already knew what he sounded like. I also knew that if for some rubbish reason I wanted him to sing, I have him at my convenient disposal to do so. Unlike these aristocrats who want nothing but money and fame, I just need John and that is it.

I paused in moving through the crowd, a sense of confliction coming gradually.

I… need John. No, that's not it. I don't _need_ John. I admire his feeling of companionship and straightforwardness along with the strict construction of compassion, but that does not conclude any cognition as perceiving him as a necessity. He was just another individual who I happened to treasure more than most people I tend to observe.

Another individual whom I seem to have this strange attraction to get him to praise my actions or to look at me in a gaze of awe.

John called this friendship. That is what he entitled my feelings as although I wasn't so sure if such a word defined this impression. No, friendship is delineated as a bond between people who've made a similar commitment and who possibly therefore share a similar destiny. I suppose in the most ambiguous meaning our relationship could be categorized as such an ordeal though I have been considering such a phrase and find it void as of recently.

Friendship is such a complicated word that I realize why I never considered it an option before in my life. It is almost as abstruse a definition as love and those phrases that adorn it. They are both the same thing and yet are separated by a scale and a dial. One side will describe a mutual sense of admiration and a keen feeling of comradery while the other side would describe the same along with the glaze of some sort of passion and devotion.

That being explained, where would John and I reside in on this scale? Are we truly friends or is there something I am missing?

Ah, but that is beside the point. No, right now I have a case and that is significantly easier to deal with than emotions of human beings I had previously disregarded prior to John Watson.

By the time my conclusion had been paused, I realized that the hallway where people were formerly struggling to get through was now completely empty and vacant of all idle intelligence that would hinder my own. Glancing about, I realized that John's singing had also concluded. It appeared he had finished his song rather quickly though it had perhaps only been five minutes – the time in which I told him to give me.

And while I should have been in the kitchen observing the staff, I was becoming indolent from trying to understand reactions I never had been aided in grasping. I suppose I could pinpoint the fact that Mycroft was never the ideal role model in becoming a growing, social, _human_ boy. If anything, he was probably one of the main drives in me wanting to be completely independent and void of feelings. He was, in a metaphoric view, the tools that created the machine I am.

Reaching the door to the kitchen, I open the door and began my search.

It would have to be in the meat section of the kitchen. That was the only logical explanation. The first victim, although already dead from suffocation, was insured death when the cleaver cut his heart in two. The second victim was, again, by suffocation (distinct fingered bruises on neck) before having a chain wrapped around her neck and then a meat hook to attach it to the chandelier. The third murder, rather untasteful might I remark, was burned with the oil that has accompanied most of the meat presentations this evening. Lastly, the poison. Although it is rather an odd token in this trend, I suppose it is to represent the vermin that are tempted to contaminate the plans of the chef.

No matter the reason for these murders, they are all done by a staff member at this party. Someone of which nobody would ever notice because they are always invisible in the scene. They are never viewed upon by any of the part attendants and remain anonymous when their presentation are given. The chefs and bakers, soup makers and wine tasters. They all comprise of positions in the kitchen.

However, the distinct use of meat-related objectives narrows it down quite nicely.

Now, to see who it is I am to be looking for.

Of all the people controlling the next meat meal, it seemed only a few men were present. Odd. If it was such a great presentation, shouldn't there be more hands here to make it the best it is supposed to be? It doesn't make sense unless the murderer in question isn't here.

But I am rushing to conclusions. Let's deduce the others before I decide my next move. Running ahead without a logical and rational mindset will lead me to missing the murderer like the last few times. I only have one chance remaining of the post-event five. These weren't good odds for my success though I never claimed to have any great deed of luck to begin with. False hopes. Another aspect I would like to avoid.

Like catching this surprisingly predictable and yet cunning criminal.

There was one man around the swine being prepared. He was tall, too tall to have done any of the murders. That was one out of the three present.

The second wasn't it either. His hair wasn't as black as I presumed earlier nor does he seem to fit the description of Miss Du Maurier before her unpleasant demise. That only left one to attempt.

Height was correct as well as the hair color. Remembering the movements of Miss Du Maurier's fingers prior to being poisoned, the individual also has a mustache to sport. This man seemed to fit. Now, for the parts nobody can see.

If this murderer was of this profession, I doubt he has been here long. He wouldn't have the customary changes from using the same tools often. No, he is probably going to be fresh in the kitchen, perhaps his fingers and wrists would be slightly reddened. He also wouldn't be accustomed to the heat the ovens gave off. Sweat would be hanging heavily on his brow.

With that said, that crossed off the last man who was clearly used to what he was doing and performed it expertly.

I suppose personal interrogation is in order? After all, two of the previous five men are missing. Two men in which the others seem to forget of or think their values and participation unnecessarily. Therefore, both must be new in this certain profession.

This case seems to be getting increasingly more interesting as the hours go on.

Although, that being said, it seems this whole case has been orchestrated as a ruse. John wouldn't be able to detect the difference in how those of "blue blood" value actually act compared to how they are executing this scene. There are a few facts that also point to this conclusion.

First, the people who are here. Their emotions are all synchronized and hardly tangent from one reaction. This, is one flaw for no human being is a like and would have taken the murders differently from sobbing to hysteria. Nevertheless, all of the individuals present to each murder was, as John put it, completely indulged in themselves. They appeared to care for none of the victims and only themselves which wasn't the case. I myself spotted a few women and men who have expressed their views differently in their facials from what they pronounced verbally.

Secondly, they all seemed very concentrated on John and I. Our presence and the way we presented ourselves may have been, in some ways, rather shocking, but there was no reason for their eyes to still follow us after that. They were clearly being ordered to watch us and make sure that we are doing as somebody plans.

Like puppets.

I grimaced, forcing my feet forward in slow steps while my mind continued to bring in facts.

Lastly, the staff also is pulled into this sham. Despite the constant affirmations that they would call the yard, none of them ever did. In fact, they didn't even falter when they saw the body like they expected it and were trying to get us out of the room. This leads to the question: why?

There are no uncertainties that Miss Dubois is the metaphorical conductor in this choreographed orchestra. Her strings are in every scene John and I have witnessed from the staff to the murmurs and biases that would undoubtedly infuriate John to no end considering his own partial opinions. I, on the other hand, hold no rancor to these individuals besides the common annoyance of their utter stupidity and blandness. Compared to the doctor's mutters of emotionless responses, I categorized them as information in my own little code of 0's and 1's.

Those same 0's and 1's have come together to create quite the game that Miss Dubois has taken a part in. But enough waiting. I need to get information. Theses based off no information is useless.

"I see that you are under staffed," I imposed to the staff as I walk up, narrowly missing a clash with one of the rushed cooks carrying a ham in her arms. The main cook, judging from the fact that everybody was waiting for his orders to do whatever was necessary, looked up at me. I sensed annoyance and that ever so interesting curiosity. Ah, perfect. Curiosity is a perfect tool for feeding information.

"Yes. What's it to you?" He responded curtly, going back to his work with dicing the vegetables to stew with the ham.

"Oh, nothing really. You just don't seem too taken back or stressed about those missing when it's clear that you need to help in performing your repast." I glanced around the kitchen, specifically at the meat locker that opened and closed frequently and the hanger where the knives and cutlery were held. As predicted, the cleaver for the meat was missing – and certainly not in either of the chefs moving hands – as well as one of the meat hooks – although it is rather odd seeing most hooks are secured to the ceiling so no doubt whoever removed it was stronger than most or extremely contriving.

The chef didn't notice my wandering eyes and kept at his profession with the upmost importance before glancing back at me. "Again, might I remind that this is none of your business?"

Slipping a folded note out of my pocket, I slipped it under the chefs forearm and he grabbed it, opened it, and then stuck it back in his pocket, grinning. Lovely making business with greedy humans. So easy to persuade.

"Ah, yes. The bloke-"

"Two," I corrected.

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, "Two. You have a keen eye there, don't you? Anyhow, they were nothing but hindrances. They were good at cutting what was necessary but always in their own little worlds and always leaving at random intervals, especially one of the two."

There we go. "And if you were to estimate a time range, when would you say these leavings were?"

The chef shook his head, "I don't remember. I was too busy yelling at the others to get the entrees out to really pay attention." I almost was tempted to see if another note would help – since it always seems to somehow – but the man hadn't finished speaking. "But… perhaps around the time when the murders occurred? That sounds about right. He was always back by the screams though."

No doubt this young man is the murderer in question. It's blatantly obvious that I am shocked the chef himself hasn't come to the same conclusion.

"Thank you. Two more questions. May I ask what happened to your cleaver and one of the meat hooks in the meat locker?" It was hard to mask that question and I shouldn't have to. Its common sense to wonder what happened to a knife no one is using and isn't certainly in the wash. Common sense for those who actually have it, that is.

"The… cleaver and meat hooks?" He repeated and I nodded robotically. Why was he drawling it out? It's a simple question. "One of the chefs used the cleaver but it seemed that he misplaced it." A lie. A bad one too. He dragged everything and couldn't look me in the eye at all. He averted any chance to make it more truthful than it was. Why was he lying though? It was the young man but he wasn't saying such. Probably the ruse Miss. Dubois has on has suddenly turned his tongue to lies and lead.

Noteworthy since he never hesitated before.

"And the meat hook?"

He shifted a little where he stood, "When we were placing a… ham… yes, a ham on the hook, the ceiling installment for the hook popped and broke. We haven't had the chance to fix it." If I could have mocked this man for the fibs he told so awfully I would have but that was not what I was here for. No, I was here to see who the murderer was before the last murder.

"Fine." The chef sighed and went back to cooking. I made it appear I was turning and stopped before turning around again, my mouth ready with the final question as planned.

"May I ask who these young men's names were? I can have the staff look for them."

At this point the chef looked like he just wanted to get rid of me and didn't hesitate to give me the answer. "Richard Brooks and Sniper. The last bloke said he didn't like his name but to be honest his second choice couldn't be any better." He stiffened after he said the word and I caught a few glares from the staff. Ah, a slip. Wonderful. Too bad I don't have the time to witness the complexity of human emotional banters.

Besides, it would be absurd to record something unimportant to my situation.

Harsh whispers and venomous threats were the undertone to the nauseating food cooking and boiling in the pots and pans as I let the door close behind me. I was once again in the hallway and it seemed all those who attended John's display were still there. Perhaps I should go find him. No doubt he is rather uncomfortable over his predicament of sudden attention and praise. All of those people who were dismissing him earlier suddenly patting his back and flirtatiously praising him.

My teeth clenched and confusion soon followed. Why was I so agitated by this? This makes no sense. It is his life and his person. I have no control over him and certainly have no reason to become so… doting. These constant emotions are like a villain, a criminal, fighting in my head and I wanted them to leave. All of this annoyance and protectiveness that I never felt before. Find his praise especially worthy and his smiles even more so; it is all becoming rather irritating and the sooner they fled back to whatever hell they appeared from, the better I will be.

I shouldn't even be considering these feelings at this time. No, I have a case. A case that is worth my time. A case that will keep me busy. A case that I _understand_. A case that isn't the constant banter of emotions and turmoil that I seem to be caught in the middle of. Ludicrous.

Case.

I'm going on tangents.

Leaning against the wall, I pressed my hands together. They fell naturally and pressured against my tightened lips as I closed my eyes, the doors to my mind palace opening to reveal rooms and hallways. I immediately unlocked the door to the information the untrained head chef told me. What appeared first were a few words written in bold font.

**Richard Brooks and the Sniper.**

Why did that sound specifically familiar? Flipping pages after pages of notes and words, I growled at my insufficient information until something on the ground caught my eye. It was hidden under multiple other sheets and seemed to have been there from the beginning. Grey peeked through and a smile formed on my lips as I realized it would be a picture. Perfect.

The smile fell and was replaced by a furious snarl that resounded through the empty halls as my eyes snapped open back to my reddened reality.

He was right under my nose! In fact, he probably is still here!

Taking a deep breath I was about to head back into the kitchen for more information, whatever I could gather. That was my intentions but it seems fate had another thing in store. Of course it would.

Miss Dubois stood in front of me, blocking me from the door. A bloody smirk laced through her delicate lips as she observed me in glee. Her eyes held a special hue of insanity and calmness I found the most interesting and dangerous in criminals.

"Mr. Holmes," she greeted with a mocking curtsy.

"Sherlock," I corrected lowly, eyes narrowing.

"Oh of course. You don't like that little name, don't you Mr. Holmes?" I frowned at the continued usage of the name I abhorred, "Reminds you of your brother, doesn't it? Brother complexes are such tedious things." She sighed dramatically before dropping the façade.

"You know who it is, don't you?"

"Of course."

"You know first hand how dangerous he is. You know especially how far he would go to wreck you," she peered at my ankle and I stiffened. Pain that I had previously ignored suddenly made itself more known.

"Your point Miss Dubois?"

The expression that coursed through her features was one craving, "Where is your blogger, Mr. Holmes?"

John.

"For a detective, you seem to keep your eyes off the most obvious prey, don't you?"

No.

"He would believe any story concerning the lives of others, wouldn't he?"

My lips curled over my teeth as I ran towards the ballroom where he was supposed to be, ignoring the flaring pain in my ankle. Behind me rang a chilling tinkle of laughter that I thoroughly disregarded.

John.

When I opened the door, I cornered the bouncer I had originally planned for John to trick. Judging by his expression, my face was probably a litotes of anger. His eyes narrowed and he brought his hands up slowly as if he was anticipating a fight.

Ha. As if. I don't have time to deal with this nuisance.

"Where is Mr. Daniels?"

"Excuse me?" he retorted and I grabbed his collar, bringing his face closer to my own. His lips tightened but I noticed the small quiver of fear in his eyes. Good.

"Mr. Daniels? The man who sang for you poor excuses of a society. Where. Is. He." I ground out every word carefully and the man paled with each one.

We glared at each other until he broke.

"A man came to him, said he needed his help to cure his wife."

Of course John would fall for that. "And where did this man go?"

"How should I know? I would guess in the back." Letting him go, I heard him fall to the ground in a huff as I left the ballroom with whispers and rumors trailing behind me. Miss Dubois was still there and disgust contorted my face as she waggled her fingers at me in a dramatic wave.

"Get your information, dear? I'm sure you know by now who the last victim is." Her face grew dark and it took all my strength not to lose it with her.

"Where is he?"

"Upstairs I'd imagine."

"Where?"

"Oh, let's see Mr. Holmes. What hallway would you suggest is the least occupied in this vicinity, hm?" She ran her manicured fingers across my cheek and I jerked away from her with a scowl.

"In the back, possibly down the farthest corner from the party."

"And if such a man as your doctor were to, oh I don't know, be in a rush surely he would leave some sort of trail wouldn't he? He's _your_ doctor is he not? Your little… _amour_?"

She was trying to get to me with mentioning John as… that. Atrocious. I'm not going to fond over him in the same minute I am completely undeniably frantic.

Leave a trail. How would John leave a trail? Yes he would be a hurry to get to the patient as soon as possible but how would he possibly leave a trail for me to follow? Unconsciously at that? Think! I have to think! I'm too slow. Always too slow. Why can't I be fast enough? It's because I'm not fast enough that John is possibly going to be tortured or even murdered!

No. Stop. Thinking of the results won't give you the evidence to that. Just assumptions.

What did John wear? A standard suit. Nothing special there. Did he do anything of significance? No.

Wait.

He sang.

"You have figured it out, haven't you?" The woman murmured in a purr. "He sang to the crowds of those who have too much money to live with. What would a _normal_ person do if they liked a person who sang? Give a few pounds, hm? Those tedious suits don't have much space to hold much, wouldn't you say?"

"There would be a trail of coins to where he is," I deadpanned and looked to her in confirmation.

"Hm? Would there be?"

"You just said so."

"Oh, no, Mr. Holmes. I never _said_ that. I was merely here to interfere with you. Perhaps you should cease bickering my falsities and resort to chasing your damsel in distress?"

She's right. I should be running now. Why wasn't I?

These damn emotions! This is why I never wanted them! They will stop me from what is most important. And the one that is most important to me at this moment is now in danger. Odd how that works out.

With one sparing glance in Miss Dubois's direction, I tsked and proceeded to dash down the hallways and minuscule different decorations. It didn't take long for me to notice the sparsely dropped trail of coins on the ground, glinting in the light. I already had a faint idea where they would lead. Amateur hour if you will. He would have to be in the back, where he wouldn't be noticed.

Where nobody would care if the scream occurred.

Where nobody would interfere with the tortures.

Where-

Shut up Sherlock.

Shaking my head, I speed up my pace and take a few sharp turns before coming to a little pile of scattered coins. They were in front of a door. Common sense said it would be locked.

I pulled out a small needle and pick and grimaced. This was going to take a while to unlock.

_I will be in there soon, John._

* * *

><p><strong>John POV<strong>

A throbbing pain in the back of my temples greeted me happily as I came to consciousness. Wonderful. How do I find myself in these situations? Am I the supposed damsel in distress? I didn't enjoy it at all if that was the case. As it was, it seemed my title was leaving me with mind-numbing headaches with strained limbs.

Judging by the fact that none of my limbs are tinging in that familiar numbness, I haven't been here that long. I have no blood on my person nor any injuries to note of beside a terrible bruise in the back of my head. Everything else was still intact and unharmed.

Does Sherlock know I am here? Will he find me? I know very well that I am bounded and have no tools to get out of this hold at this moment. I have to rely on that stupid detective that was the indirect cause to this. Ugh, idiot. He is probably being interested by the case that we came here for. I doubt he has realized my disappearance yet.

After all, he only has an eye for the next case and not those who pursue it with him.

A whispered argument between two other people in the room caused my internal rant to quiet down. At first their words were muffled and new to my ears but as the seconds drove on wearily, I could pick up on the distinct tone of both of them. No, wait, I knew these men. Very well in fact. Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran.

I followed them to this room on the blind whim of a harmed individual and it ended up being a complete lie, as expected from a criminal. I was gullible and I was certain that I was going to end up paying for it now. Nobody knew I was here and even if someone did care an ounce for the man that sang to them, they wouldn't know where I went for that matter. This building was impossibly large and the hallways rather lengthy and endless.

In other words, and a lack there of, I was screwed.

Gently flexing my arms, I decided to test how strict my bonds were.

My arms were attached to the arm chair's own appendages with rope. The hold was tight enough to keep me from being able to slip out but loose enough to not cut off circulation, thank God. My feet were much the same and judging from the faint orange hue on my closed eyelids, the light was on no doubt. Not making any sudden movements, I tried to hear the conversation between the two rather frequent criminals.

"I told you not to hurt him too severely Sebby~ He's needed later!"

"For what? He's only a hindrance Jim."

"Oh shush! Can you not see the way Sherlock looks at him? How he swoons? That man has gained too much of a resemblance to a heart than I like. This will be the perfect way to end him."

Sherlock likes me? Ha. I mean, all of those… practice sessions we did were only for the part we were given. There was no way he could love me no matter how much I may wish it to be true.

"Two birds with one stone, so-to-speak?" Sebastian continued after a moment of thought.

"Exactly! I'm so glad you're so quick!"

"How do you exactly plan to do that exactly?"

"Suicide. Common death nowadays, isn't it?"

My breath hitched and I could feel the tension rise as the conversation dropped to silence. I kept my eyes closed in hopes that they dispersed it as completely nothing. It was a vain hope, I know. They were criminals of whom were very well versed in their craft. I knew it would be too good to be true, but I still hoped nonetheless.

But when is luck ever on my side?

"Oh look who has woken up! Our own little sleeping beauty… or would sleeping soldier be more preferable?" Sighing, I opened my eyes and was greeted with Moriarty's awaiting grin. He looked as excited as a sadistic child mutilating its first bird.

"What are you going to do?" I hissed in the direction of the man. I had long given up over asking why I was here or why he was taking me. Why would he need a reason? Especially when he was practically insane that any reason of rationality was excusable.

Skipping over to my side, Moriarty kneeled beside me and swung his arm over my shoulder. I attempted to move away from him but my bounds only allowed so much. Struggling with said bonds, Jim sighed and forced me over to him to cease the futile writhing.

He gave Sebastian a look and the man pulled out a knife that was clean and sharp, possibly new even for this occasion. Giving a small, childish chuckle, the consulting criminal cooed into my ear with a voice full of dire devotion and passion, "Just leaving a little message for your little lover," he paused. "Well, one of the steps. One of three to be precise."

"Of three?" I prompted but he merely shook his head.

"Not now Johnny boy. Not now. You will have to wait. For now, we have to initiate the first act. Sebastian himself has been awaiting this."

_I bet he has_ I thought bitterly, watching the two fluxgate and change positions.

Watching the blade though, I felt a battle go on in my head. The one voice, side, team, whatever you may call it, wanted more scars. It was the one that beckoned me in the dressing room. The one that wished to have more cuts and scars for every tear I had caused, for every fault I had possibly initiated myself.

But the other half had faith in Sherlock, that he would find me. I didn't know how or when but it was a strong feeling of faith I had ever felt in anyone. In order for him to find me, alive, I would have to buy time. Somehow, I would have to slow their advances and the only way possible seemed to point to causing a risky bickering between the two criminals. I wasn't too excited for this. Would anyone?

Grimacing internally, I stiffened and rolled my shoulders, a phantom pain following. I pulled out my military façade and gave a stern, uninterested stare in the direction of Sebastian and Moriarty.

The consulting criminal didn't seem too pleased about this sudden creation of a second skin. If anything, he looked annoyed. He was probably looking forward to seeing me in much the state I was last time. Weak. Vulnerable. Idiotic. I was still all of these now, regrettably, but I could pretend I'm not. It's one of the first aspects you pick up on when in the military and I was a bloody captain. Surely I can master it for a few minutes.

"Sherlock will appear you know," I spoke clearly, ignoring the hissing reaction of the losing side of self-harm. Moriarty's eye narrowed and Sebastian's lips tightened into a line as he appeared at his boss. I took this chance immediately and added, "He's the world's only consulting detective. He can and will find me before you can perform any of your… amateur motivations."

That stroke a chord and I knew it would. Calling Sherlock's skills amateur were possibly the worst you can do to his ego and overall compliance as a person. Saying that to a person as Moriarty was bound to be worse.

It was this feeling of being worse than Sherlock's that thoroughly poured ice in my veins. I knew that this was going to buy me a few seconds, but what if Sherlock didn't appear in those few seconds? What if he isn't here and I'm just throwing blind faith out there for nobody to catch? Once these few seconds of shock wear off, I'm going to get pain that I anticipated and yet hoped to never receive if my detective was truly here.

Jim froze.

That was the first show of my mistake. No, wait, not really a mistake considering I did it on purpose, but it was a sign that Sherlock needed to get here immediately.

Because Moriarty might as well have been a statue for all he was moving. He froze and didn't move, his eyes looking at me but not seeing. Minutes passed and nothing was said. The air was full of tension and thick with apprehension. None of us appeared to be breathing. I was anxious, concerned of what I had done. Sebastian's gaze watched Jim with nervousness.

All of a sudden, Moriarty's head snapped up. His eyes were those of a dead fish, his smile gone and only leaving a frown of a displeased parent. If anything, it appeared as if all emotion had left his features only to leave a unsettled corpse in its wake. I knew this wasn't comical Moriarty that giggled at the thought of murder.

"Sebastian, remove his clothes." There was no questioning his tone, no little endearments to make it all the more nauseating. No quirk plagued his tone to the plains of annoyance.

This was the boss that Sebastian followed. This was the man that threatened consequences and ordained the murders so inquisitively orchestrated. Nothing was questioned when said by this man. Nothing was doubted and nothing certainly went ignored.

My ability to attempt at buying time only ended me in a deeper hole than before.

Silently, the ex-military sniper neared me. With jerked movements, he cut away my suit and unbuttoned the dress shirt under it, rolling it back to expose my marred skin and beating heart. When he moved away from my chair, I heard a muttered "Now you have done it" emanate after him.

He had spoken my death wish and I awaited with thickly-layered unease for what was to come.

Sebastian stood next to the altered Moriarty, looking straight ahead as if looking him in the eye – or in his general area – was suddenly forbidden.

"You know what to do, Sebastian."

A crossed expression of a sneer and a grin formed on the trained snipers face as he once again neared me. This time, the blade wasn't going to be on the objects around me – pants, vests, shirts – but myself with dead precision. I steeled myself for the change in tide I knew was bound to happen.

The side of self-mutilation was thriving for the cuts of the blade. It craved the blood to fuel its nonstop torment.

Was this what a relapse felt like? Sarah warned me about this as well, telling me it was perfectly normal. Could this be my relapse or could it be the event that would lead to it? Either way, it terrified me. I wasn't ready to relapse now, certainly not when it appears I am going to be needed most.

_But nobody can just… time a relapse can they? That would make them too convenient._

When the cuts did begin, they were easy to ignore. The words that followed were even easier. For some reason, they didn't match the internal struggle I was having with myself. Convincing myself to be stronger while already being affected by the depression that started the debate.

Sebastian called me worthless, but that wasn't so hard to already tell myself. He said I was a failure. He said a lot of things I was already certain of myself.

But what sane, rational side I did have, fought against this parading melancholy. They lit torches and waved broken swords in the direction of the impending darkness like futile soldiers.

It was almost all too easy to just snuff them out. Like licking your fingers and pinching a dying flame on the fragile wick of a candle.

Gradually, I did take notice of my situation but not out of voluntary actions. It was because the blood that cascaded down my pale skin seemed to darken, the edges of my vision failing to a blackened blur. In the back of my mind, the doctor spoke with panic that I was losing too much blood. That I was mentally unstable. That I certainly was not as alright as I thought I would be.

As the vision blurred to blackness, the only thought that resounded through my skull was simple and yet weighted with definite certainty.

_Sherlock hadn't found me._

And for some reason, that hurt me more than all of these slashes combined.

* * *

><p><strong>Sherlock POV<strong>

By the time the door gave its satisfying click, I knew I was already too late. The only question was whether I was too late to save John or if I was too late to capture Moriarty.

Which was more important to me?

I was a high-functioning sociopath. I was an antisocial machine incapable of achieving anything to the kinship as affection and, by a stretch, love. I placed my own profession against the people I was supposed to treasure most. I was a much disliked man and an even more abhorring friend.

With that said, why did my heart rate increase at the thought of John being dead?

Why did that compared to Moriarty escaping feel like I couldn't breathe?

Even though the door was unlocked, I hesitated with my hand on the doorknob.

All those events where John and I had to engage in intimate displays of passion; those were for the case, correct? They were for no other reason? For some odd reason I couldn't explain, that felt like a lie. Whatever morality and certainty I had for my body and heart were set on that.

When I was with John, and even prior, I felt an unlikely source of emotion and foreign feelings course through my mechanical veins and stall my gears in a sense of complete shock. He made me feel human. Mycroft had been unable to achieve this, in fact, he was the cause. Lestrade attempted but his fatherly obsessions were never as amiable as he thought. Molly even tried but her skittish abilities hindered any progress in the matter.

But then John appeared. He was different. He was constantly by my side, making sure I was healthy and actually getting along with a man I thought to be completely loathed.

He was different and he made me more human than I have ever felt.

So, that being said, I suppose the most visible deductions have hindered me. A deduction so obvious that I had been blind by its simplicity.

I gripped the doorknob and turned it, pushing it open quickly.

But none of those results will matter if John isn't alive.

The lights were off when I walked in. Flicking on the switch, I glanced around the room slowly.

Moriarty was gone when I looked around the room but that didn't surprise me. These rooms had a door to connect rooms to each other. No doubt they used it to escape the second I came.

Odd.

That didn't seem to matter as much as it was supposed to.

Taking a deep breath, I could scent the smell of blood and metal meet my nose readily. Almost a second later my eyes met John's crumpled form. I couldn't tell if he was breathing or if he was dead. I couldn't see anything besides all the new scars and old scars mending together to create a patchwork doll.

"John! John can you hear me?" I shouted at the doctor as I kneeled in front of him and placed my fingers against the vein in his neck. His condition was horrid but a pulse still beat through his body and brief puffs of air greeted my palms weakly.

I was surprised, I will say, but not completely overwhelmed. John was a soldier so no doubt he had been used to this kind of torture. Nonetheless, the irritated, puckered lines hatching John's skin were a sight to cringe at for any weak stomach. The blood that originally exited the wounds were nothing but crust of brown dried flakes.

But he wasn't bleeding anymore. I took it as a form of relief instead of worry.

"John. Please. You must wake up," I shook the man again, hoping to have him wake up but he merely shook his head, murmuring "Not worthy" and "Pathetic". My lips thinned but I blocked out emotions with a thick barrier. This was still a case. This was still my case. Human emotions needed to be pushed away for the time being. Save them for the flat.

Untying the ropes around John's wrists and ankles, I watched the doctor slump in his chair, nothing keeping him from staying in posture.

It was then a few wounds ripped from the sudden movement and the real message the criminal left for me was revealed.

_Relapse is bitter Mr. Holmes? Look Up. :)_

Ripping my eyes away from the words, I looked up at the wall. On it, in John's blood I presumed, was those words Moriarty has used since the first abduction for my doctor, "IOU".

My? When had "the" turned to "my"? When had he stopped noticing?

Tsking at the tangents, I pushed the thoughts into a room and locked it, concentrating on helping John out of his chair with as little jostling to his penetrating wounds. If his slouching caused more than a few to break open in small tributaries of blood, than he could possibly die of blood loss if I didn't move him carefully.

Carrying him was out of the question. Not because of my strength, but because of the position it would put his wounds in. It would be a fragile state. My ankle was also in intense pain now that I have considered it, but I wasn't going to die from a simple ankle injury. John would die from blood loss if I didn't get him out as soon as possible.

No, I would have to somehow make him sobered enough to walk or at least shuffle.

"John," I tried again. My voice was stern. Perhaps a military approach would be beneficial. He has been trained to wake up at the call of his name.

"Captain Watson. Attention." That worked the trick.

John's eyes flashed open for a brief second, looking around and then at me before closing his eyes once more. He whispered something but I couldn't hear a single syllable.

"This is no time for sleeping, John. I need you to put your arm over my shoulder so I can get you out of here as quickly as possible." The captain didn't respond for what felt like minutes. When I thought he had fallen back to unconsciousness, he slowly lifted himself from the chair. I quickly attached my arm around his waist and supported him as he shuffled.

The hallways were seemingly empty as we walked. The music and laughter had ceased as well as any sounds of a party in general. When we finally descended the stairs, I wasn't surprised to not see any evidence of a party at all. In fact, the place appeared vacant.

Each step sent a resounding vibration of pain course from my ankle up through me. It was painful, yes, but to be honest it was perhaps more annoying if anything. I didn't want to feel my own pain. I didn't want to at all considering I wasn't the one who needed attention.

As we got closer to the entrance, I kept an eye out for Miss Dubois. I knew she had long fled the scene. She more than likely left after she spoke to me, doing her part in John's demise.

John was right not to trust the woman. Still, she never left the true case, did she?

A part of me thrived to hear those words. To hear what she wanted me to do now. I wanted to have my next case, my next kick. I needed a case.

But then the almost dead weight on my shoulders reminded me that I was needed elsewhere. I needed my blogger at this moment more than anything, as utterly cliché as it sounds. Ugh, disgusting.

Outside the gigantic doors, sirens were blaring and stupid police officer voices were uttered. Great, someone called the yard. How wonderful. Like they would get anything done.

I was about to open the door when two scarlet envelopes caught my eye. They were on a small end table under a vase full of roses. One addressed to I and the other to John. Upon inspection, they were written by two different people, the one for John from the one for myself. I was tempted to open John's but the position I was in hindered the ability so I stuck his in my pocket, holding onto my own as I pressed the doors open.

Immediately, everyone's gaze swept over us. Not a second later paramedics attempted to take John from me. Glaring at them, they stopped and meekly lead me to the ambulance to put him down myself. Afterwards, they threw an obnoxious colored blanket over my shoulder and John's as they checked his vitals and spoke of his wounds.

In the meantime, I flicked my bloodied fingers across the envelope with my name. It was a feminine hand, a delicate hand. It was clearly Miss Dubois.

Ripping the paper, I extended the paper and quickly screened over the words so intricately written on the paper.

"_So you have pulled the sword out of the stone, have you? That's more than most people do. The real case is written in this paper if you scrutinize your sight. Perhaps you should bring it into a different light?"_

A different light. She didn't mean metaphorically. I knew that she meant literally. But, there were different types. Color, natural, black-

Black light.

A somber grin grew on my features as I looked at the paper.

I had a feeling the game was almost done between Moriarty and I.


	23. Chapter 23

_Edit: I forgot to mention that after I post the next chapter, or finish the story, I will go back and edit this entire fanfic once more. I have had a lot of annoyances with how flighty my writing was and am determined to fix it. Putting it out there in case something seems different than when you last read it._

_A/N: Hey guys. I apologize for the 6-month delay. I had this little number stuck in my computer for the longest time and then I kind of got a new laptop since my old one needed a factory reset twice. I cried with all the data I lost and eventually found. _

_This chapter is an important one. I won't say this often, but it is. At least, it is significant. It may seem like everything happened quick, but there was a reason I added that last case. It was mainly plot and evidence for this chapter. You'll see why. _

_Again, I profusely apologize for my lack of updates. Luckily, I've been in a Sherlock mood. I'm working on the next chapter since finally I can begin to wrap up all of this. Trust me, if you thought anything before this was twisted, confusing, or outright random, the next chapters are going to be more so. I have everything in my mind and it's going to be rather interesting._

_Recently, as in yesterday, I finished summer school and I am now free to update fanfictions which is wonderful since this story makes me cringe in guilt every time I see when it was last updated. Paint It Black will also hopefully get an update soon once I get off my lazy arse and send my chapters to my wonderful friend and beta. :)_

_Well, enjoy the chapter as always._

_It's been a long journey, but it will only end in a blink of an eye I fear_

_I don't own Sherlock, of course._

* * *

><p>A Detective for a Muse<p>

Chapter 23

-SHERLOCK POV—

Needless to say, that brief and welcoming encounter with ecstasy didn't reside long in my presence.

I suppose it would be too much to request that Lestrade had left me be with my blogger, wouldn't it? I had expected the man to value privacy for a bit, but it seems everything had become prone to object any sense of tranquility. The only additional annoyance would be if Anderson was here.

Adjusting the orange blanket around my shoulders, I scoffed as I spotted the exact individual I abhorred. Great. He was here. And was that a glare he spared in my direction? Oh I am surely wounded.

Imbecile.

"Sherlock," Lestrade repeated and I met his gaze with disinterest. "You have been quiet for most of my interrogation. I have to tell the press something."

"Make it up?" I offered, rolling my eyes, "Since you all do it so well."

Lestrade sighed and glanced behind me at John, seemingly giving up on asking about the case, "How is he?"

The unresolved anger quickly transformed into self-displeasure.

Why was I so infuriated with the Yard? Yes, in retrospect, they were performing their "best" to find the culprit they could never locate, but that was no reason to get annoyed with them. Some of them were complete idiots, but I already knew that with personal experience. Most, if not all, of them were completely incapable of serving an ounce of justice; yet another thing I knew. Anderson was in charge of forensics. That in itself was a senseless and injudicious move. There were annoyances in the Yard, but I already knew they existed and so it shouldn't bother me as much as it did.

For I have reasonably and calmly dealt with these disturbances for years and they have never held the same amount of irritation as they currently presented now.

A medic came to my side to check on my strained ankle. I winced as she prodded it none-too-gently. I glared at the medic until she looked up and noticed that yes, I am in fact throbbing from her inept finger prodding, I rolled my eyes when she simply blinked at me and went back to her poorly executed work. At least John was careful and at least his touch was chary compared to this fool. Who teaches the medical crowd these days? Probably a callous individual who couldn't tell blood from condiments.

Again, irritation. I didn't like it and I'm not sure where the switch from euphoria to frustration occurred but I would like it to be switched back.

I had a case. I had a motive. I had something to keep my mind from worry- watching over John. I had that brief but very adamant moment of euphoric glee to keep my mind constantly busy with something that wasn't human. Something that was logical and rational.

Lestrade had apparently been talking but I didn't hear him. He seemed to be talking about how I needed to give a statement, but he knows I won't do that. When have I ever given a statement?

After a few minutes longer of his banter, I decided to deliberately knock it aside, "Lestrade. If you wish to remain here, I would prefer it to be one of a friend and less of a detective for now."

The widening of Lestrade's eyes were not missed and I didn't express any response to the surprise.

Then a grin seemed to manifest itself across the inspector's face and I regretted my response.

Seating himself on the ambulance ledge, Lestrade remained silent for approximately five seconds before speaking his mind. "Color me surprised, Sherlock. If I didn't recognize it myself, I would have placed your uncanny concern as disregard, but it seems to be more like…"

I averted my gaze to Lestrade, partially curious by his benevolent, paternal assumptions.

Aware of the attention he had obtained, Lestrade paused – possibly to think of the right words.

"Affection."

My brows rose at his direction of thought, yet that was the only reaction of skepticism. No instant denial left my lips nor did any scoff of incredulity. Instead, a feeling of interest and personal curiosity flitted briefly under my analyzing stare.

Affection? For John? I admit I have represented an unorthodox amount of likeability towards the army doctor, but would affection be the right word to express such actions? It was possible albeit rare.

Earlier, when John's voice filled the corridors of the celebrational ruse, I had come to the conclusion what I felt for the blogger was certainly not restricted to just friendship. It would have been simpler to assume such and label us as that, but it would have only been a half truth.

The thoughts from earlier came back in a flood. The processes I pushed away in the sake of the murderer and a case.

I glanced at John, aware of Lestrade's eyes following my movements.

Do I feel admiration and comradery for him? Do I somehow represent passion and devotion? As before, neither and both seemed plausible. I admired his bravery and stubbornness. I appreciated the relationship we had acquired.

However, when the case permitted us to become more intimate, I wasn't so blind as to realize I held greater intentions. I was able to sense these and it sparked curiosity. The passion of seeing John flustered and weak under my actions. The devotion to keep him in that state. It was an interesting experiment and one I would like to pursue even not as such.

Affection was another complicated word it seems. It applies to both friendship and romance and I haven't the slightest clue as to which we apply to.

The previous thoughts came back to me from when I was pick locking the door, when my hands shook with an emotion I had the least experience of. How I had… thought I had deduced the intentions of my mind and furthermore, my heart. Now, when all of the adrenaline and tension of the moment were gone, I feel doubt rain in like a storm.

It was a spur of the moment and I knew I couldn't completely agree or disagree to its presence until John aided me.

But how would he react? Surely this is an absurd question to ask one like him, isn't it?

"Sherlock. You have been staring at John for quite a while now. Is there something you would like to say?"

I glared at the detective out of impulse but another voice broke through instead of my own.

"Oh? So he's staring at me now? I feel so honored. Anything of interest, Sherlock?" A weak chuckle escaped pale lips as John attempted to adjust his body to look at us both. His body, still fragile from the amount of blood loss, refused to move and he eventually just acquiesced to remaining down.

Lestrade was the next to laugh and commented on his injuries and joked about him being a damsel. I didn't necessarily pay attention to the alleviated words. I did, however, notice a certain amount of weight lift off my shoulders at the awakening of the doctor.

Interesting.

Flickering my gaze over John, I noticed immediately that talking should not have been in his best motives at this moment. He was only just out of harm's way. The harsh breathing that escaped his still pale lips broke his speech several times. He was visibly shaking. As it were, he was under emergency blood transfusions to keep him from a bloody death.

And yet he still denied his condition to break the tense worry of Lestrade and me.

For a split second, a resemblance of a possible _fond_ smile graced my features before falling into indifference before any of them could catch it.

Well, almost anybody. I briefly spotted John glance my way before pointedly looking away to Lestrade, a weak chuckle escaping at something the inspector said. This was soon followed by a coughing fit that seemed to radiate pain all over the army doctor. I thinned my lips and beside me I noticed Lestrade visibly tense.

After he got his breath back, I saw John look at the roof of the ambulance. For a moment, I thought I saw something dark in his eyes, something foreboding and worrisome.

But then he met our eyes and it was gone. If I wasn't so sure of my vision, I would have discerned it as the pain or my confusion playing tricks on me. But no, I was certain I saw something else. Something that, despite myself, urged worry to manifest as annoying as it was.

I turned my gaze to glance at the EMT who decidedly gave up after wrapping my ankle. I wanted to rip the bandages off. The restriction was bound to be a hindrance in any sort of cases I take. What if I have a chase to pursue? I certainly can't do that with this bloody ankle.

My mind broke off by John once again. Apparently, he had pointedly ignored the fact that he was injured and wanted to try getting up again. Lovely.

He managed to position himself on his elbows when I met his expression again. He looked visibly pained, sweat pouring out of his skin and his entire body shaking with tremors.

Lestrade got into the vehicle and enforced the doctor to lay down while I rose a brow.

"I am perfectly capable of getting out!" John protested weakly although the cough that followed surely didn't help his case any. The only healthy aspect he seemed to potently express were the glares he sent at Lestrade and I, to which Lestrade sheepishly apologized and I did not.

Besides, he was okay? Capable at that? Please. The chef from the kitchen told better lies than John and the man was bloody awful. A pure amateur really. "Okay? John, I fail to see how you are in any definition of the word, okay. If so, correct me. You have multiple lacerations over your chest and arms, not to mention to few that nicked your neck and face. A few of those cuts landed dangerously close to arteries or veins that could have ended you. The lack of blood will leave you weak, disoriented, and you balance will be at its weakest state as well. You are, in no way, fine."

John winced at my reconciliation but I didn't falter. It would do no good for John to act rashly and seeing as I apparently am the only one with a rational brain, I will have to assert for the both of us.

The dark look that crossed John's features once more was almost missed again. I briefly wondered how many times the expression crossed John's face that I never took notice of. The thought made me more concerned than I liked to be.

Sighing, John relaxed. "Fine. Seeing as I highly doubt Sherlock will let me leave this bloody vehicle, I will stay until my injuries are covered. Better?"

"Much," Lestrade agreed with a grin. I was about to roll my eyes and retort the inspector's simple reply when an insipid officer called the inspector over. Excusing himself, John and I watched Lestrade run off to deal with whatever simple issue they had on their hands now.

When I looked back at John, it was like he changed. Exhaustion and fatigue were the most prominent of the change he experienced. The sturdiness and abrupt determination to get up despite the consequences seemed to have melted away to leave how he truly was. Now, he looked aged and tired, weak and unsure, worried and frustrated. It was like he had seen too much, understood too little, and still felt no connection.

"John." I didn't know what to say. I didn't know why I said his name. Maybe to bring up these cursed emotions. Yes, this would probably be the best time. Maybe. Timing wasn't always his best suit as John tended to point out.

"Yeah?" John met my eyes with a weary sense of amusement. Clearly he caught my catch of tongue.

"I…" For some reason, the words failed to come to me. This was absurd. Truly absurd. I was never this affluent in words. I decidedly tried again. "John, I… about the case…"

"Sherlock, I get it." John's eyes looked sad at that moment. To me, it didn't seem like John did get what I was trying to say. Instead, it seemed more like false accusations were being produced.

I shook my head. "No, you don't get it, John. I need your opinion. Advice. Another view. I don't know how to appropriately address it, but I need another voice other than my own and seeing as this deals with you… the only person that can answer it is you." Those words came out in a rush and I cursed every single one of them.

John's eyes widened in surprise. "Me?"

My hand pinched the bridge of my nose. "Yes, you. Only you. Always you. I don't get it. Some time ago, I know I asked you about this and you said friendship. You said distinctively this was friendship but I am beginning to hold doubts. I have never had doubts on my thoughts. It has never happened because I am always right."

John didn't answer but nodded to urge me on. His face was expressionless although a little light seemed to make itself in his eyes. "But this time I don't know if I am. I've been deducing myself since the beginning to this case, John. I have been calculating everything along with the common characteristics of its analysis. I fail to understand what the conclusion is since it is overall so foreign to me."

"Sherlock-"

"And I need you now to settle this. When we were snogging, when I had pinned you to the wall, I know I said it was for the case. It was for the case. That's what I kept assuming, but what I felt during those sessions was certainly far from it. When you were singing, I briefly considered a possessive term to your name."

"Sherlock, just-"

"When Moriarty had captured you." I deadpanned and felt my hands rub my face. Small shakes meddled in my bones. "I felt such raw examples of fear that I began to fear "fear" itself. It was a different emotion. I didn't want to open the door and see you dead, John. I didn't want to have to carry your corpse. For a split second, I considered maybe this fear was for losing Moriarty, but the mere thought of you… it was suffocating me."

"Hey-!"

"And I know it's absurd-"

"Sherlock, you prat, just shut up for a second!" I blinked at the outburst and looked up at John. He was smiling and he looked thoroughly amused by my rambling. I, however, failed to see the amusement. I failed to understand how any of my situation was qualified for the word "amusement". "Just say what you want to say. I don't need any of your extra ramblings and intellectual rants to go with it."

I took a deep breath and settled my gaze on John. "John. I think I-"

Timing. Yes, timing was definitely not my aspect because decidedly at this moment the EMTs wrapped John's injuries and Lestrade came back to see what he missed.

John looked amused while I was utterly annoyed. Quite annoyed. I hated interruptions, especially when I was speaking. And especially for important things like this where timing was the only aspect to drive this.

And now it was gone.

Exactly what I bloody wanted.

If sarcasm could translate into thoughts, it would be heavily induced.

With no time at all, John was wrapped and after another half hour, he was released of the emergency IV and the blood transfusions. He was still visibly weak, but he seemed determined to leave the vehicle the second he was able to, not that I could hold it against him. Thy pitying looks spared in his direction mixed in with the occasional curiosity and disgust seemed to outweigh remaining there for treatment.

The medics strictly ordered him to rest to which he abided to willingly. I highly doubted he would actually follow their words, however, I have no room to talk myself in that area of expertise I suppose.

Lestrade did try to keep him there, but John wasn't going to abide to the man's advice. When it seemed the battle was lost, Lestrade would glance at the multiple bandages around John's chest, stomach, neck, and face. After a minute, he dismissed us and left to attend to the rest of the crime scene I assumed.

Standing, I winced at the pain in my ankle flared hotly, but ignored it as I wrapped my arm around John's waist. He paralleled my actions as we hobbled towards the cabbie Lestrade had thankfully hailed for us. Maybe I'll give a report. Maybe. One look at the gawking Anderson and that thought dissipated.

I wanted to snort. Was he truly surprised that I indeed had a heart as to help John? At least for someone who deserved it? Idiot.

I heard John snicker beside me when he followed my gaze. It wasn't from the gawking, but by the fact that Lestrade had pointedly stepped on his foot to stop his actions before shooing him away.

Once in the cab, I directed the cabbie and sat back. John looked visibly pale from the exhortation and his skin was glossy with sweat. None of his bandages were red, however, which was prime concern.

A small crinkle in my coat reminded me of something else I needed to tell John.

Removing the envelope from my pocket – the one for John – I handed it to the man. He looked at it than at me with a raised brow.

I bristled. "What?"

John smirked. "I'm surprised you didn't open it."

In all honesty, I probably would have since it was evidence for a case, but I had completely forgotten about it in the midst of being concerned about John. A rarity for myself but it happened upon occasion.

However, I refused to mention my weakness to John. I was still perturbed over the interruption earlier. "I was simply being polite."

"Polite," John snorted and then snickers a little. I rolled my eyes. I was hoping he would open the envelope in the cab but instead he places it in his trousers and says he will read it later.

It was silent in the cab before John speaks up.

He clears his throat. "So, about what you were saying earlier?"

I looked at him before glancing bored out the window, or at least assuming the look of it. "Yes? What of it?"

I couldn't see him but I imagined he rolled his eyes. "The thing you were saying before we were interrupted."

For a moment, I froze. It was odd.

But then I relaxed. At this point, the cab had pulled up to the flat.

I had the leverage to ignore John's prodding, however that seemed a tad… cruel even though cruelty was not a new aspect in my spectrum of personalities.

Still, leaving him with no answers towards his qualms seemed unreasonable. I did, after all, approach the topic of my own accord and I am not one to leave things half-said.

My hands opened the door, but I didn't step out. Instead, I hesitated briefly. Pondering. Thinking. Balancing.

John, beside me had reached out to open the door though his position seemed to radiate some sort of disappointment I couldn't comprehend. Why was he disappointed? Why would he be bloody disappointed by my incapability to say what I should say?

Glancing at him, I cursed under my breath.

Sighing, I reach over towards John and pull him forward by his stained shirt, just barely meeting his lips. It was a little messy, definitely not on par, but I had just thought of it on the spur of the moment. It was a chaste kiss, meaningless. However, it was the only simple action I could really do without uttering the words that my tongue seemed to wrap around, unable to reveal.

John briefly froze before pushing the kiss deeper. I was taken back, surprised to say the least. It wasn't feverish nor passionate. It was… warming, a tinge of comfort.

Then all too soon John pushed away. His cheeks were flushed and his lips a bit swollen but not noticeably so. I probably appeared no different than he considering the brief snog.

"We should head into the flat before people talk." The breath I didn't know I was holding was released in an airy chuckle.

"You should realize this by now, John," I chided as I slammed the cabbie door shut and John did the same on his end. "People will _always _talk." I was about to tease the man a little further when I saw the knocker. It was aligned. Perfectly aligned.

A low growl escaped my lips as I open the door and race upstairs, ignoring the screaming in my ankle to pursue a greater demon. John is fast on my heels, calling my name in confusion and concern.

However, his cries faltered when his eyes sight upon the unsavory person in front of me. I noticed immediately as he fixed his posture in the presence of the man and a brief flare of utter annoyance began to fester. A grimace forms on my injured blogger's face which is more subtle than my rather prominent scowl.

Standing, or rather leaning on his Brolly, was brother dearest. A small frown of disproval laced through his appearance that did little to deter me. He was attempting to make me shuffle, to squirm under his "high and mighty" glare, but I had long grown out of it. My ankle was pulsing painfully from the race but I ignored it. Beside me, John was trying to catch his breath and only then did I tear my gaze from Mycroft.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," John spoke though his breaths were a tad labored. I noticed the paling complexion and waxy skin once more and internally winced. "You just have to give me a warning before you go running off like that. Age must be getting to me." If my brother had not been there, I would have smiled. But he was there. In person. Monitoring me as he always did.

And of course visiting me when he's never wanted.

A bitter sense of resentment was common when in his presence. This moment was no different than any of those other times.

Shutting the door behind the doctor, I keep it unlocked. Mycroft was not going to stay here very long. He never does.

"Why are you here?"

Mycroft sighed. "On behalf of security of this pleasant country, unfortunately. Why couldn't you have handled this situation more civilly?"

I wanted to laugh, however, I just thinned my lips into a frown. "The situation had no time for such. It was a race, Mycroft. A race for time. Oh, but you wouldn't know what that is like, wouldn't you? You've never dealt with having someone's life on your hands."

My brother looked about to retaliate when he bit his tongue and let out a long, deep sigh. I took this to my advantage.

"Why didn't _you_ capture Moriarty?"

He didn't even blink. His expression was completely pokerfaced. "What are you going on about now, Sherlock? I have better plans for my agents."

"Oh? Then capturing a criminal that very well may threaten Her Majesty any day now? Stop averting the question, Mycroft."

"I don't have the slightest idea what you are inferring to." It was a steeled response when my brother was on his last nerve.

I laughed but it was humorless. Much of my reactions around my brother were humorless. He seems to drain the fun and curious out of things. "I knew your men had been watching the party, and furthermore, myself. It was blatantly obvious."

Mycroft's eyes narrow considerably. After a second, he sighed and pinched his nose in annoyance. Defeat. "They lost him."

"Lost him?" I repeated. "Your agents, who you pride in their abilities, lost a man known for his dramatics? Why do I find it hard to believe you, brother dearest?"

"I don't believe you have much to criticize me for, Sherlock, considering your failure as the "World's Only Consulting Detective."

"Compared to being part of the government, I don't think my brief error is as severe," I bit back and watched as Mycroft twisted his fingers tightly around his Brolly, a sign he was getting angry.

I was about to further introduce my argument when John cleared his throat. My gaze fell on John and it's obvious he is annoyed and weary. In the spite of my argument, I forgot about him.

John met Mycroft's curious gaze, a small pinch of authority in his voice. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

Mycroft didn't spare a second to respond. "It is none of your concern, Dr. Watson."

John chuckled. "If it deals with Sherlock, I fear it is in some way my business as well."

My brother nodded. "In any other situation, you would have the right away to hear this with him, however, I would inquire you to leave the room for what I do have to say is for Sherlock's ears only. Family business. I'm sure you understand."

I was about to protest when John simply nodded.

"Fine. Just don't stay here long, Mycroft. You tend to leave Sherlock incredibly insufferable when your visits occur." He yawned and dismissed himself and headed for the room. I watched John leave and silently shut the door.

When it clicks I meet Mycroft's gaze and drop the childish antics. "Family business" normally meant something severe and highly confidential, both of which sparked my curiosity as much as the letter had.

"What is it you need this time, brother dear?"

JOHN POV

When I shut the door, I locked it out of habit. Well, maybe it was more accurate to say it was a mixture of paranoia and habit. It just felt incredibly pathetic to add the second reason on.

Rationally, I knew that the odds of being under attack were rather slim. In fact, nothing was going to happen – I was certain of that – but my aching body and twitching limbs seemed to be anything but rational. The trauma was enough to make me second guess most of tonight.

Even now, they flinched when the mere thought of pain came up.

God I have been under pain nonstop since the beginning of this case which is commendable since this much hasn't occurred since the betrayal. A quick succession of accumulated pain in attempts to remind me, persuade me, dissuade me. Pain from the previous beatings, pains from emotional trauma, pains from the new beatings. Pain might as well be a bitter comrade in arms. An acquaintance I was weary of but certain of at the same time.

I absently wondered what I did in my past life to deserve this treatment now. Was I a murderer? Was I the betrayer? Was I the one of whom Sherlock chases now? I must've done something unforgivable for this to occur.

And, bloody hell, I've done it again, whatever I did then. Between falling into pits of depression I was even surprised of and containing memories of all those men I blindly led to their deaths, I suppose it was eye for an eye. Like fate was meant to rewrite our lives exactly as they were before in order to humor herself with our obliviousness to the vicious circle.

For a second I clench my fists, but the muscles refused to remain that way for long. They were frail and enervated.

I myself was exhausted. I was beyond exhausted. Spent and worn-out seemed to fit better than that term. No, exhausted was what I was prior to the case. Exhausted was what the last encounter left me and the brief, almost terrifying moment, in front of the mirror. Exhausted was the confusion and complete temptation to really just say "sod off" to Sherlock Holmes and his conflicting actions.

To be honest, sleeping for a good 24 hours didn't seem like a bad idea when taking all that into consideration.

To say I was mentally worn out was like saying getting hit by a car was only a little nudge. My mind was left in the appearance of a warzone after what had occurred the past few months. Those small worn soldiers who waves their broken swords at Sebastian's words were now strewn across the terrain. None of my side remained standing, but then none of the other side's enforcements were either. It was blissfully quiet and for once, in quite a long time I'd admit, I could think rationally.

Which is slightly less worrying than being concerned that I haven't been thinking that way at all.

Blinking at the twisted knob, I walked over to the desk in front of the window and slumped into the chair. My muscles briefly protested the sudden impact but soon fell into relief at not having to be standing on fragile supports.

I rubbed my face and pinched my nose to break the headache happening between my eyes. At the moment, I didn't know if it was from the sudden silence in my head or the sibling pride that battled between the Holmes brothers. Maybe it was both.

My lights remained off as I glanced at nothing in particular for the time being. Shadows lengthened my furniture and favorable items to be longer than they truly were and darker than I ever imagined them capable.

If Sherlock's mind palace had been a castle with a million rooms and only ten keys, mine might as well be a million keys and only ten rooms. The rooms pertaining to what I should be focusing on instead of the mocking laughter hidden until I stuck the wrong key into the socket. His was organized and impeccable for his purposes while mine remained as dark as the slithering shadows that extended from me.

Sighing, I looked out at the stars.

They were brilliant and bright, the clear sky allowing their presence to be known for the seeker. They were extremely familiar but distant. Like one of the doors that still remained locked in my own prison of a mind.

And yet, their existence didn't mock my past irrationality. They were instead reassuring.

For they had been the same stars I had admired to the extent of their beauty months ago. The glimmering lights that followed me on the streets and whispered a good night when I passed out on the rubbish and debris. The same shimmering reminders that watched me until dawn nudged me to get going.

Those same flames that I looked at with sadness on my first night here when I realized how small and far away they seemed now that a window was in the way. How constricted I felt. How restricted this entire concept was.

Back then, I had been weary of Sherlock. I had a small amount of fear for his eccentrics but at the same time I came to be loyal to him. For he took me in when no one else would. For he heard my past and didn't reject it. Well, most of my past anyhow but that was another matter altogether.

He took me in and he held no prejudice. That was more than I deserved.

It's odd. Back then the stars were an open canvas without binding. Then it became constricted to a square.

Much like I have been free to roam the parts of London most don't acknowledge and mingled with the parts that do before becoming constricted towards the prison bars of the past and the whip of the present. Or at least my recent past.

Because right now? Now I'm not even bothered by the fact that I don't mourn for them. Not in bitter resentment and annoyance, but as if I was standing on my own two feet again and needed to become independent from the observers.

I'm not sure whether to be happy or disappointed about that.

Because I don't find the stars I admired so frequently in the skies anymore. I find them in the man who now bickers with his brother. I find them in the detective that chases the criminal. I find it in the muse that orients my songs.

When his eyes shine with understanding.

When he smiles genuinely and for a moment seems like a totally different person.

When he is determined by utter stubbornness to pursue a case.

I find the stars there. Yes, literally, they are in the sky. They follow me and watch me throughout the night. But they don't hold the same light as the stars that I spy on Sherlock.

Much like my discovery of my change in stars, I didn't know whether to be happy or disappointed about this.

I would like to be happy because god knows I need it by this point. Considering all I have thought and all I have seen, happiness would be nice. Just thinking about my mindset during the entirety of this past case causes shivers and nausea to pulse through me because I felt like a different person then. I knew I was a different, out of character Watson that needed a good kick to get back into function.

And even before that! Even before the case I was distinctively different. And it all started with the first time Moriarty captured me. My past had left me vulnerable. It had left me open to his persecutions and it affected me – still affects me now.

Where did that leave me now? It left me ashamed to be called a captain for I didn't fight back. I didn't hold my ground. This wasn't holding up my memory of my men. This wasn't remembering their attitudes and wonderful personalities. This was becoming pitifully weak and unable to face what I have long avoided.

I let out a breath of air and leaned on the desk, closing my eyes with no intentions of sleeping.

Absently, I wondered why I decided to do this recollection now, under the lights of these stars. It was sudden, this realization. It was dreadfully sudden, but it felt necessary. For some odd reason my mind decided to stop moping and concentrating on my dark past to push me forward.

It was a complete 180. Whereas before I focused on death, on my pain, on my demise, on my faults; this was different. Now I focused on how I was going about it the wrong way and I secretly resented myself for taking so long to realize this.

Because while I'll never forgive myself for those good soldier's deaths, moping and pitying myself was only digging the pit further. Eventually, I probably would have realized it was truly digging my six-foot deep grave.

I thought back to that dream from a while back. The dream of the burning tree that disappeared by Sherlock playing the violin. The notes that flew past my head with urges to stop thinking the way I did. The music that enveloped me in peace.

And now, it made sense.

As sudden as it was, it made sense.

It was my mind hinting subtly that I needed to move on. Honor is different from self-depreciation. The soldiers wouldn't want to see their captain like this. They would have wanted me happy, smiling even, perhaps even laughing at my past with a fondness.

Additionally, there was Alina. The mother with the little girl of whom I still haven't had the bravery to approach and formally apologize. She would have wanted me to remember her with good memories and not with the damage I have inflicted recently.

Memories are not made to simply deter you to dust. They are made for multiple reasons and I have been blind to one of the main choices. To look back on, to reflect, to purposefully remember and use in a certain angle of affection and keenness.

So, yeah, now most of this made sense.

Which was something compared to the fact that Sherlock's sudden kiss did not.

He… he didn't say what I wished him to say, but that kiss did. It said everything. Because we weren't on the case anymore. It wasn't like that. We couldn't say "practice sessions" anymore.

It was a real kiss.

And perhaps, as cliché and utterly stupid as it was, that was all that I needed.

Suddenly, I banged my forehead on the desk with a groan.

Oh blast it all. This was confusing. Perhaps I really _do_ need sleep. Something to rationalize my head from all this nonsense. I'm turning into a bloody teenage girl with all of this Sherlock business.

Sighing, I lifted my head and pinched the bridge of my nose to hopefully drown out the growing migraine I appeared to have manifesting between my eyes.

I couldn't sleep. There was no way I was going to be sleeping anytime soon. Not with what just happened fresh on my mind. No amount of epiphany moments was going to free me from those. I would have to calm down significantly before I actually think about sleeping.

My eyes landed on my abandoned guitar. When was the last time I played it? It seems like it had been decades since the last time, however I knew that it was only a few hours.

Still, that was not my guitar. That was a ruse instrument under the false pretenses of an intrigued audience. That meant nothing compared to the strings I knew were my own and were going to never lie to me.

Fingers itching, I grasped the neck of my guitar. It mourned under my fingertips as I gently stroked its strings. Callouses rubbed down as muscle memory reminded me of my old hobby. In the mist of all this confusion I had been ignoring the one constant I promised to never give up. Funny how things work that way.

It was only a matter of time before the instrument was propped into my hold. It still would never fit like my first and oldest guitar, the one I lost when I first arrived here, but that didn't take away from the amount of appreciation I did hold for it. Sherlock bought this for me after all and he didn't have to. I never asked him to.

It's things like this that makes me really wonder if when I do get my old guitar back I will only use that one. Maybe I should move on from the past. Mum would have wanted that, despite the raging curses of my father.

Dreamily, my fingers began strumming and dancing along the neck, pressuring the volume and sliding down to restrict it to different notes and tones.

Immediately the peace and amity surrounded me like a blanket. A soft sigh escaped my lips. Outside of this room, I knew that Sherlock and Mycroft were having sibling disputes and they would no doubt hear me. It's not like I personally cared. Not in the slightest. Sherlock knew well enough that I played because that is how he found me: playing.

My foot began tapping on the ground to the rhythm. I knew what song I was going to play even before I actually knew it.

At first it was a hum, soft and breath-like, and then it slowly grew into words and syllables.

And as it started before, Sherlock was the Muse that influenced the tone.

_Pick it up, pick it all up_

_And start again._

_You've got a second change,_

_You could go home._

_Escape it all._

_It's just irrelevant._

_It's just medicine._

_It's just medicine._

_You could still be,_

_What you want to,_

_What you said you were,_

_When I met you._

_You've got a warm heart,_

_You've got a beautiful brain._

_But it's disintegrating,_

_From all the medicine._

_From all the medicine._

_From all the medicine._

_Medicine._

_You could still be,_

_What you want to be,_

_What you said you were,_

_When you met me._

_You could still be,_

_What you want to._

_What you said you were,_

_When I met you._

_When you met me._

_When I met you._

_Ooooooo…._

_Ooooooo…_

The last note seemed to go on forever. It rang in my ears, flitted in front of my eyes, hummed in response toward my actions of the past and present.

But it also placed a layer of peace around me as my pain was numbed and I leaned my head back on the uncomfortable chair. Sleep seemed reasonable now, it seemed possible. A little bit of normal to balance out the abnormal. A recreational medicine. I chuckled softly.

A faint crinkle in my pocket reminded me of what else that was revealed to me.

Pulling out the slightly wrinkled scarlet letter, I ripped it open and unfolded the contents. It's a simple formal letter until I read it.

And then I freeze.

_Hello, Doctor John Watson. I have reason to believe that you and I should meet under a topic of both of our interests. This is regarding the safety of your Sherlock Holmes. If you value his life, Dr. Watson, please do text me. I look forward to your response._

Searching for my mobile, I eventually found it in one of the drawers of the desk.

I briefly question my sanity and my trust in this individual. And then I decide to throw it out the window and text her. For if Sherlock's safety was at question, I was willing to do anything to make living certain.

The reply was almost instant.

_Hello, Dr. Watson. Let's have dinner._


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: Hey guys. Update finally. This is a… pretty important chapter that I butchered. I'm sorry. I wish I could have put it together better, but I am quite frankly awful at writing and these boys test my limits._

_Anyhow, almost to the end. I've said this multiple times now honestly. I'm thinking… five or six chapters left and that's with the small epilogue I have thought up._

_Ah, I want to apologize to someone. She knows who she is because she's honestly one of my only online friends that I haven't chased away. She's been awesome, guys. Best friend I could ask for. God knows how insufferable I am and absolutely intolerable at times._

_That's it! I am sorry that this chapter turned out the way it did… plot and writing quality. _

_Haha… yeah… also, it may take me a bit to update this after this chapter. I have NO outline for the next chapter except for bullets in my mind I have yet to write out. I know what will happen, but I don't._

_At this rate, Paint It Black may get updated quicker than this. (Guilty and apologetic look at mention of the story I have yet to update)_

_Well, read, fav, follow, or review. Just enjoy the chapter guys. __ Small message at the end._

_I don't own Sherlock._

* * *

><p>A Detective for a Muse<p>

Chapter 24

**John POV**

When I glanced at the sign, it was a habit to tug at the collar on my suit.

In any other circumstance I, would never glance at this place twice, much less actually intend to go inside it. It was too posh for my tastes, something for the rich aristocrats, bureaucrats, and diplomats. An establishment for Mycroft possibly if he had to mingle with the common folk. However you put it, it was not for the likes of me and those of my nature.

Yet here I was staring at the sign of a high-class restaurant as if partially wishing it to flip over to closed or foreclosure.

I felt and no doubt _looked_ out of place, not that I necessarily cared per say. An old military captain, blogger, and temporarily homeless man dressed in a suit for a dinner _here_ of all places? It was bound to make a few people snicker not to mention myself at the odds of this happening in my lifetime without it being in congruence to a case for Sherlock.

Besides the upmarket standards this place held, there was another reason I would rather attend Angelo's or small little cafes like that. In the exclusive class, everyone was trying to figure out who you were, what your story was, who you knew, what you knew. They wanted to see if you could be used to their advantage.

I was more than relieved to say that in most of their business-like gazes I would be nothing more than ordinary.

Shaking my head at the dealing I somehow pulled myself into, I pulled out my mobile from my pocket, flicking my gaze over the brief text to make sure I was in the right area. I had probably checked it short of twenty times by this point, but one can never be too careful.

All she had given me was the address with a "Meet me here at seven o'clock sharp. I'll be waiting" with the following address:

_The Social Eating House. 58-59 Poland Street. Soho, London. _

Normally, I wouldn't follow the directions that someone anonymously has given me. It was reckless and could lead to consequences entirely placed on myself. However, I had an inkling that this was in congruence with Sherlock – not taking in account that her message announced that as well. That there was something this… woman had that could affect my detective. At least, that is what she said in her letter.

I chuckled as I caught the possessive on Sherlock. God, I was already placing him in my division. We haven't even spoken much since the kiss he spared. With his new case and my own plans, we haven't exactly been speaking as much as we probably _should_.

Hopefully after all this we can talk it out. It's about damn time anyhow.

Taking a deep breath, I straightened my shoulders and adjusted my posture to fit a military stature. If I _looked_ like I should be there, maybe that will divert the fact that I really shouldn't be.

With a flick in step and a touch of firmness to my name, I reverted back to Captain and entered the classy, snobbish brasserie.

Now that I was inside, I concluded without fault that this was definitely the type of place that Mycroft would attend to with a nice glass of wine carefully balanced in his fingers. Cushioned seats lined the walls, tangerine in color, with tables spaced tediously and meticulously. In between were smaller, café-like tables with the usual chairs. The entire place had an aura of sophistication and potential business affairs.

I could see why this place was suggested. After all, I was not here for a simple pint with a mate. This was a place for dates with important people and _not_ for giggles and drunken maneuvers.

Approaching the reservation podium, I cleared my throat. The host raised his hand as he spoke to someone else on the phone. After a minute of confirmation and writing, he finally met my eyes, hand already on the list of reservations and pen to make a check for my name.

"I'm here upon a reservation for a Miss Adler." The host checked the name and nodded, grabbing two menus and a pair of silverware.

"Right this way, sir."

He led me towards the back of the restaurant. Eyes stared and whispers accompanied my movements to figure out who I was, in which I inwardly rolled my eyes. Sherlock was right about one thing. People _always _talk without fail.

I heard everything from my story, to my hair, to my face, and eyes. Everything and anything there was to talk about they mentioned and the only thing that kept me from possibly sending a few glares was the fact that Sherlock would be even _more_ annoyed with all of this.

The back of the restaurant was barely it, almost like kerosene lanterns were used to give it a sepia feel. It was mostly desolate and empty, odd for the hour and day. Normally restaurants like this were flooded with large groups of people from corporations or firms of sorts.

Instead, the place had a quiet and delicate aura like a plane of thin glass.

My eyes swept the many empty seats for the woman that requested my presence. At last, I found a lone shadow in a booth, carefully glancing at her carmine nails before glancing up.

One look at the woman smirking at me and I realized she was probably at fault for the odd absence of people.

She had dark hair styled in a 1950s sort of style, crimson lips, and a confident aura that could compete with Sherlock's pride.

I didn't trust her. It may have been her snide grin or the leer she gave me as I finally noticed her, but there was something distinctively different about her and currently I wasn't sure if that was positive or negative.

In a way, the fact that Sherlock was on a case made me infinitely glad considering he would have gone strangely possessive. I probably wouldn't have gotten anything done and I doubt Miss Adler would have opened her sealed lips for our discussion in his presence considering he was the main topic.

The domineering actions Sherlock took wasn't too surprising. To be honest, I had an inkling of a suspicion that Sherlock would be a tad overprotective of those dear to him since he doesn't really have many to hold close. Still, I didn't expect him to change so drastically – and quickly – after the chaste kiss in the cab.

This meeting would have drawn in innumerable suspicions if Sherlock had his mind palace on the fastest processor possible. God that makes it sound a lot worse than it really was.

Ah, well, I suppose I don't really know how bad the situation is yet so I can't pinpoint that thought confidently. For all I knew, simple infatuation accusations could be the least of my problems.

Sitting down in the booth, I eyed the simper on Miss Adler's face. It told no lies and revealed less truths. Her posture was even less indicative.

Her face was propped above her hands with a telling gleam in her eye as if she knew so much more than she would ever led on. Judging by her aura and the place we were in, I would be surprised if she wasn't like this.

I, on the other hand, was leaning back against the cushion of the seat. My back was still straight and my hands in my lap albeit clenched despite my reminders to relax. Proper etiquette of course was important here. Nervousness would attract attention and I was not nervous. A captain is never anxious.

"Dr. John Watson," She purred and I rolled my eyes. Please. Miss Dubois had tried that trick on me one too many times for that to ever hold water. Besides, I wasn't really into the occasional fling anymore, especially when I was taken in by Sherlock. I was happy with that and nothing more.

So I offered a plastered grin and replied smoothly, "Miss Adler. You look lovely."

She shrugged. "It is mediocre at best for me, dear. Your compliments are appreciated nonetheless."

I rose a brow. "Mediocre? I know there are plenty of lads sparing glances in your direction."

"Animals," she dismissed. "Besides, I am here strictly upon business." Smiling to herself as if she told a personal joke, she looked me over and nodded. "However, might I say that I am not the only one dashing in this duo?"

It was a little remark to keep polite. Small talk before easing into the debate. I have been in a few engagements to know the routine. The military doesn't always mean shooting a gun and stealth, as much as the recent video games beg to differ.

"Your praise flatters me," I respond effortlessly with a half-smile. "However, I believe we should move on from simple pleasantries. Don't you agree?"

The glimmer in her eyes expressed interest. I knew this from the countless times I apparently surprised Sherlock somehow with an act or argument.

"Certainly." She motioned for a waiter and he approached with a bottle of wine from a year of some sort. I suppose if I was a gentleman I would have paid attention and remarked on its year and quality, however, I was everything short of a gentleman thus remaining silent. Miss Adler narrowed her eyes at the bottle for a brief amount of scrutiny before looking at me with the same sort of predatory grin.

"Wine?"

Not wanting to appear impolite or out of line with my manners, I nodded my head in affirmation. I had no intentions of drinking it since the influence would not benefit the situation.

The waiter poured two glasses and handed them to us. I watched as Miss Adler sniffed her glass barely before drinking it elegantly. I just placed mine off to the side where I planned to leave it forgotten.

After a second, she placed her glass down gently and observed me.

However, I wasn't planning to remain here long. Polite conversation aside, I wished to pursue the business I came here for and then be off. I wanted to know what she meant and what she intended to do.

And, if the case called for it, I was prepared to aid in the plan. Of course, this depends on the plan.

Shuffling closer, I tugged at my cufflinks on my suit before asking her outright. "What did you mean earlier?"

"Hm?" She hummed, a smile tugging at her lips. She was teasing, playing her cards.

"The letter." I reminded.

She didn't reply. Observing me with a plastered leer that seemed to be her neutral expression.

"I have reason to believe that you and I should meet under a topic of both of our interests. This is regarding the safety of your Sherlock Holmes. If you value his life, Dr. Watson, please do text me," I quoted. I read the letter multiple times after the reply and even more prior to the meeting.

She grinned. "Oh? You memorized it? I feel honored." Suddenly, her grin fell into a thin smile. It was a business smile. "I don't think this is the right time to mention it. It's the sort of discussion that should be conversed over dinner if you understand."

I wanted to protest, but considering the establishment I was in, I didn't think it was such a good idea. I had to keep an appearance as much as I would like to shrug it off with a few choice fingers.

Sighing, I leaned back and entertained myself with looking around the restaurant. It was definitely too posh for my tastes. I liked simple places, family places. The small places that seemed to radiate more warmth then the meals they produced. It was a nice area that one could safely breathe in without worrying about poison. These sorts were socially regulated and constricting.

It was similar to suspecting everyone here had a double life, double personality, a lie over a truth or the opposite. Nothing was as it seems" being the quote I would subscribe to the area. Eyes that were carefully veiled and smiles that held more than simple pleasant memories.

Avoiding looking at everyone else was easy when taking that into consideration.

When the waiter returned and asks if we are ready to order, I realized that I had not even glanced at the menu.

Miss Adler smirked and answered. "We'll skip the appetizer. Two plates of your braised veal cheek if you will. Thank you." The man nodded after he wrote it down and walked back towards the kitchen.

"Now that we have ordered, will you answer my question?"

She scoffed in my direction. "Impatient are we? Sherlock has definitely done a number on you, Doctor. You surely adore him, don't you?" It was stated like a question but sounded more like a statement to affirm. A teasing smile played at the corner of her lips.

I chose to avoid it. My current affairs with Sherlock were not the topic right now after all. "What trouble is Sherlock in? Also, while we are speaking, why are you involved or wish to be?"

She paused before answering.

"It's not so much what trouble he is in as to the trouble he will be led to follow if you continue to exist in his heart." She sipped her wine before continuing. "As to your second question, I told you in the letter. We have similar interests regarding your detective."

I began to sputter, surprised by the bluntness at which she spoke. "How am I becoming troubling to him? I mean-"

Raising a brow, she sighed. "You don't understand, dear."

No, I didn't. I didn't understand where the nonsense came from. Yes, perhaps my personality the past few weeks may have been troublesome, but I don't see how it could affect Sherlock's wellbeing overall. It was a puzzle piece trying to figure this out. A puzzle that I had all the pieces and yet none would go together.

Leaning in, she spoke. "What I mean is that as long as you hold the core priority of protection from Sherlock, Moriarty will forever have the leverage to bring him down. You will be the end of Sherlock, Dr. Watson."

I heard the name Moriarty and clenched my fist. Narrowing my eyes, I glared at the woman.

"How do you know him?"

"Know who? Moriarty?" She questioned, a bit off guard from my question. I nodded.

Her smile went thin.

"I'm sure you know Miss Dubois?" Another nod. "She is my older cousin, and quite frankly she had always been the sort to jump towards rebellious, risky bets with a fortune in tow. Follows the most interesting pot in her favor, if you understand.

"That being said, she is leading your Sherlock on a goose chase to aid Moriarty and I'm sorry to say that Sherlock has long fallen for it. The only way to minimize the impact is to break away the part that will destroy him unlike anyone else." Miss Adler states this bitterly as if it was acid on her tongue.

I knew what she meant and focusing on the past, it was easy to see Moriarty's plan and Sherlock's reaction to said plan. A chase of cat and mouse and I was the bait to attract the attention.

Leaning back, I looked at her and I mean _really_ looked at her.

She looked tired but masked it well with her never waning confidence. Nights must have been spent orchestrating this meeting between us without anybody noticing anything out of the ordinary. Her fingers were barely shaking, probably from sleep deprivation if I knew from experience.

I didn't want to trust her. I really didn't want to place any ounce of belief in her, but I felt that I should for the conjoined reason of Sherlock Holmes.

"Miss Adler."

"Irene," She interrupted.

"Irene," I corrected. "How do I know if I can trust you?"

She laughed softly. An amusing chuckle that stated that this wasn't the first time somebody asked her this very same question. "It's quite simple. You truly shouldn't, dear. I'm not much better than my cousin, I admit shamelessly. However, your and my interests align in this instance. With that insurance, I can assure you that Sherlock surviving this encounter is my prime goal if you want any insurance on trust."

"Surviving? You mean that Sherlock may be leading toward his-"

"Demise, yes. It's a throne battle, Dr. Watson. Two lions circling each other with thoughts of who will truly run this jungle. A lion isn't simply going to maim the other and claim the throne. No, he will go for the throat." I winced and nodded.

I decided, and this may be incredibly foolish on my part later, to trust her.

The meal came soon after, as if the waiters were timing the exact moment to come in.

"Now, let's take a moment to enjoy this meal before we continue, hm?"

I nodded. I picked up the fork and ate the food but I didn't really taste it. I don't remember swallowing or savoring the clearly immaculate meal. It was just something to fill my stomach as I thought things through.

In a wall of mutual silence, our meals were finished.

I cleaned up my hands and face while waiting for Irene to finish dabbing her cheeks. When she was done, she smiled as if she knew what he was going to say.

"So, I'm sure you are wondering why you are a liability."

"Actually, no," I murmured. That was the first train of thought my head went to after all. "I can see it. Is that the reason why Moriarty tends to make me his intended target?"

"I knew there was a reason I liked you," she praised before continuing. "Precisely that reason. He's been waiting to end Sherlock for quite a while. It's almost childish how far this feud goes back. Anyhow, once it was clear that Sherlock took an interest in you, I will have to admit that you presented him a gift with a bright red ribbon in his favor."

I grimaced.

"What do you suggest we do, then?"

Irene finished her glass of wine and took a deep breath before responding. "It's not going to be easy."

I chuckled humorlessly. "Nothing is ever easy when it comes to Sherlock."

She smiled, but it was thin and strained. She caught onto my tone. "I'm glad we can agree on something pertaining to the detective."

Pulling out a scarlet envelope, she passed it across the table towards me.

"Here's what I want you to do. It will be up to you if you follow it to the last letter."

**Sherlock POV**

The message, to my disappointment, wasn't too interesting nor difficult once I figured out what it said.

_Muse et son détective. I have an arrangement I wish to speak to you of organizing. Meet me at your usual location for lunch, won't you?_

I didn't hesitate when I reached Angelo's, pushing open the door and examining the room. In the front, where John and I would sit, was where Miss Dubois sat with a glass of tea in her hands. Her fingers tapped against the glass impatiently. She looked adamantly bored until she landed her gaze on me.

A smirk curled into her lips as I took the seat opposite from her and leaned back with my arms crossed over my chest.

I appeared indifferent. That's how I always appeared when in the face of those I abhor or don't trust. I was an expert when it came to acting cool and apathetic. As a detective, you don't want those you are consulting with to know weaknesses or soft spots. Acting like everything doesn't necessarily matter and ignoring emotions in the process are normally the preferred methods to avoid this mistake.

However, despite the biting remark of "_No emotions, Sherlock"_, in the back of my mind I was worrying about John. In fact, I have been worrying about John significantly more than I did prior to our last case. It was disturbingly… odd. I would assume this was due to the affection and brief kiss we had, but I could be possibly harboring a sense of possessiveness.

I never had anything I could claim to be mine. One could say I never had a particular individual I trusted enough to hold my heart and not rip it to shreds, despite my claims and accusations that I have no heart to begin with. John, of course, was that person and it seemed liked he was becoming more distant as of recently since the kiss.

It was concerning to say the least.

Perhaps I had done something wrong? Was I rash in thinking ahead? No, he did return the affection. It wasn't one-sided. It wasn't the question of loyalties and affection.

Still, ever since the night he retired to his room, he has become less and less active in conversing or being in the presence of anyone. Sometimes, I'll hear him sing softly in his room and it's times like those that I would have liked to request to listen, however, I didn't want to interfere or make things – whatever they even were – worse.

I hated not knowing. Like the night where John was having some sort of nightmare and all I could do was play my violin. I still didn't understand why that helped him nor do I even know the reason for such qualms.

Everything that I _should_ know bothers me because I _don't_ know it.

A small tap on my fingers brought me back to the woman in front of me. I briefly wondered which I abhorred being in the presence of the most, my thoughts or her. Both were equally annoying and absurd.

"I have a preposition to make. Are you willing to agree to one?"

I tilted my head, placing my elbows on the table and bringing my hands together. "Depends on the preposition you have to offer."

She smirked.

"Perfect. Just the answer I was hoping of receiving." She took a slow sip of her tea as I observed her. She was showing an exceptional amount of confidence. She thought she had the upper hand. Well, of course she did. She was the one who invited me after all and the one currently making all the orders. Being the one in charge normally came with confidence following suit. Ah, typical, simple minds.

So easy to deduce and they hardly realize it.

"You see," she continued and I blinked my thoughts away temporarily. "I think you should cease your chase on Moriarty."

That was certainly not the preposition I had in mind. She seemed to be linked to Moriarty in some sort of manner and now she was telling me to fall back, like she cared for my well-being. Whose side was she on exactly?

I narrowed my eyes. Additionally, the mere _thought_ of ceasing the chase sent folds of disgust and bitterness throughout me. Ceasing was in congruence to failure and I was _not_ going to give up when I knew we were close to finishing this qualm. Why would I ever do give up? I never abandon a case, especially one of which I am extremely close to putting an end to. Additionally, this case was equal parts occupational, personal, and professional.

It had long gone from curiosity and occupational determination to personal redemption or vengeance, both aspects I am not too experienced in feeling.

"I can see in your eyes that you are rejecting it immediately. Oh don't jump to quick conclusions, Sherly. I haven't even stated the full offer yet." She snickered and glanced out the window before finishing her offer I was already declining. "Additionally, you should let the good doctor go. Scott free. Alone. Away from this mess you have gotten him in." She turned towards me when she said this.

She was watching me for a reaction. As if I would give her one. Please.

I let out a humorless laugh. "To be entangled in Moriarty's clutches? Why should I do that to him?"

"Because you care for him." I raised a brow. I did care for him but that isn't a strong enough reason for me to let him go. That was more so a stronger reason to _keep_ him at my side. "Just because you choose to ignore Moriarty doesn't mean that he will do the same. How many times has John been affected by the consulting criminal? I'd say another kidnapping would devastate the poor dear into shattering to pieces."

I scoffed. "John is stronger than he seems."

"Is he?"

"Of course. If you knew him, you would know that he would never falter to Moriarty. It's simply not in his nature," I retorted. It's one of the true aspects I knew John to have. He was stubborn, strong, loyal, and faithful. It's why I still rely on him when I can't turn to anyone else.

"Well, obviously. But you are missing the point, darling. He _was_ strong. I know you have seen the dark shadows pooling in his eyes. You have witnessed it and you worry about it." She whispered the last sentence and I had to restrain myself from satisfying her hunger for my emotional reactions.

So instead of widening my eyes or getting recklessly angry, I clenched my teeth.

She held out her five manicured fingers and tapped each as she listed off. "He's distant for one. Possibly has a dark or sad look in his eyes when he thinks you are not paying attention. Perhaps he is quiet, doesn't speak as much. Thinks a lot to himself or gets lost in thought. Oh, and lastly, he doesn't mingle too much with social interaction."

I counted them off in my head. Annoyed didn't even compare to the amount of irritation I had for this woman. I hadn't the slightest idea how she knew about this, but she was spot on. It was almost like she had seen it through my own eyes.

Sighing, she smiled pitifully and tapped my hand gingerly.

"I think your precious blogger is depressed and what's even worse is," she leaned forward. "You haven't even noticed yet."

Haven't noticed? I've noticed. Of course I have noticed. I saw everything. There was no way I could have _missed _this. So, how did I?

She was right and that was what got to me in the end. Not the accusations she was making or the facts, but the mere idea that she was _right_ because that meant that I was wrong. As many know, I don't enjoy being wrong and yet it seemed this entire scene from the second I walked in has proven just how wrong I am about the one I care and value the most.

Miss Dubois scoffed at me when I didn't respond immediately. "You've broken your toy, Sherlock. He was perfectly fine until you picked him off the streets. With all your wear and tear, the tugging and throwing, you have effectively knocked out the gears and scraped the paint off the surface."

A pause allowed us both to breathe before the woman continued. "You weren't wrong before, Sherlock. He was strong and reliable. Loyal to the core really. A true warrior and possible martyr. That was before he met you, however, and now I fear he is far from who he once was."

I grimaced despite myself. "You're wrong."

She smiled in response. "Am I? There's more yet. How you played with his heart! The poor dear having to do all of those "practice sessions" knowing it was for the case and against his personal values. In that sense, I suppose that yes he is stronger than I gave him credit for. God only knows the strength he had to master to force himself into believing you only cared for the case and not with the stabs in his affection. I pity him."

I winced internally, but on the outside my lips thinned.

Her lips curled. "It's your fault." She was attempting to jab me with thoughts I have pondered myself. Indeed, she was no better than Moriarty and I knew that. I had no intentions of accepting her preposition. Why should I? Clearly this whole meeting was all for naught.

Leaning back, I ignored the accusation. My business was done if all she had were jibes and not actual information. I was here for facts, not claims and indictments. "I dismiss and veto your preposition, Miss Dubois. Now, the case if you will. That is, if you have any actual, valid information to spare."

She grinned, not at all surprised by my refusal apparently. "I'm sure your brother told you already, hasn't he?"

"I'm here for another point of view."

"Oh of course. One can never be too careful."

"Obviously."

She smirked and asked and waiter to bring some wine. It seemed she was also returning to business. I appreciated that. The topic of John was beginning to wear me down. I was not going to take her words to heart. I'll conduct my _own_ research and make my _own_ conclusions.

I never fell for rumors and opinions of others and I was not going to start now.

Letting my hands falter, I let them land on the table soundlessly.

"Moriarty told me that I should avoid speaking to you, but it seems that you attract the worst in others, Sherlock." She nodded in appreciation as the waiter poured a glass. "However, I will give you a little hint to start you on your case. The final case, in fact, if you don't play it correctly."

Final? I wanted to scoff. How could this case be my final one? Impossible.

However, amusement aside from her absurd thoughts, I was curious from the allegation.

That's what I was here for after all. The true case. The one that would hopefully lead me to Moriarty where I could settle this once and for all. Leaning in, I clasped my fingers together and awaited.

"It's not going to be easy to find this hint."

I rolled my eyes. "I have my methods."

"As I am sure you do." She paused to take a ginger sip of her wine before placing it down silently. "You'll be surprised to hear that the first clue, the one to begin the precious case that both your brother dearest and Moriarty wish you to pursue, is on the instrument that you found John with. It all was a full circle back to the blogger, captain, and doctor."

My expression didn't falter but my curiosity peaked. "His instrument? The acoustic guitar?"

"Yes, I have told you that Moriarty has planned this for a while, Sherlock. The guitar is exactly where you found it the first time. I guess if that's the hint, it really shouldn't be too hard unless you tossed the memory aside."

_As if._

Nodding, I dismissed myself and began to walk out the door when Miss Dubois called out to me. "Oh, don't forget to check on John, will you? He is a dear and we all know how prone to panic attacks he is."

I stopped in my tracks and narrowed my eyes at Miss Dubois's shining grin. "He hasn't had them in a while."

"Doesn't mean that he won't have one now. Just because they are temporarily absent does not indicate being healed. Who knows what he will do when there is no one around? He is known for being _reckless_."

I scoffed and went looking for the guitar, certain that my blogger was perfectly fine. At least, he would be in the time that I have to retrieve his instrument. After I see what its worth to the case was, I could even return it to him. It held sentimental value and he will no doubt be happier to have it back.

Finding the instrument wasn't too hard considering it was only fifteen minutes from Angelo's. Retracing my steps, I walked over to the alley that John bordered passing out on when I first met him. When my eyes glanced over it, for a moment I remembered the day I saw him playing there. The sad tone in his voice, the skillful strumming, and the story that I was – and still am – determined to finish.

Along the alley wall was the guitar John treasured highly. It was leaning there and judging by the fact that there was little to no dust or dirt on it, I'd say it had recently been placed there.

_Just as I thought. She was still in tune with Moriarty. I'm not surprised really_.

Picking up the case, I flipped the latches and opened it to see the guitar as pristine as when it went missing, I looked it over with a skeptical eye, curious how this could be a clue. It appeared exactly as John left it, minus a few careless scratches along the wood surface. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

I placed the case down and held the guitar up to the sunlight and caught something.

It wasn't necessarily on the guitar but _in_ the guitar.

Peering into the guitar, I saw a few words scratched into it.

_Leaving your blogger alone so soon? Such a shame. You're making this almost too easy, Sherly! When will you ever learn? __ - J.M._

Miss Dubois had warned me. She had warned me constantly and I didn't listen to her words. It was a clipped tone that I was _supposed_ to read in between the lines. God, how could I have been so bloody _stupid_?

Cursing, I raced back to the flat.

Mrs. Hudson was there when I ran in, winded only slightly. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins a kilometer a second. She looked at me with concerned eyes. "What is it dear?"

I shook my head. "Not now Mrs. Hudson. It isn't me. Where is he?"

"John?" she pursed her lips slightly. "I believe he is still in his flat. He hasn't left at all. The poor dear is probably feeling in a lot of pain from the change in weather. You know how that affects injuries."

Nodding, I ran up the stairs two at a time and threw the door open. One could never be too careful. I _had _to be sure.

The little pitter patter behind me informed me that Mrs. Hudson was following me but I was too busy searching the room for any signs of John.

"John?"

I checked his room. I checked everywhere I could think of.

It was only when I felt water slap the bottom of my soles that I looked down at the bottom of the bathroom door. There was water running under the gap and it was still running inside. It wasn't gushing, but the fact that despite my knocks I heard no voice raised my concern significantly.

I didn't care if he was taking a bloody shower. I had to be sure. I had to be certain.

My head froze all my emotions, but my hand moved on autopilot, twisting the knob and pushing it open.

Out of all the scenarios I briefly fancied for John or I to be offed, this wasn't one of them. It didn't seem possible, highly improbable. However, I suppose that doesn't make it necessarily impossible.

For, despite my claims of rarity, John was lying in the bathtub. He was shirtless, and blood seeped out of his wounds lazily to mix gingerly into the water around him. His skin was pale, waxy, and fragile. It seemed as if he was a porcelain doll, broken if moved too quickly or dropped too high.

Lifeless.

That is what his pose inspired. His eyes were closed, unseeing the abrupt distraught and self-rebooting actions his actions were causing to the one who found him. The trickle of water from the faucet gently swished his limp arms around as it splashed to the floor.

But my focus was on his eyes. His closed eyes that I knew wouldn't open.

A part of me wanted those eyes to open. I wished them to flicker open to lazily peer at me with a soldier's determined smirk. However, it seemed… unlikely now.

My feet walked ahead of my mind. My hands removed my jacket while my mind remained betrayed. My fingers grasped John's body and lifted it out of the tub, placing it in my lap when my mind seemed too occupied to do anything but stare. I didn't bother turning off the faucet, not necessarily caring about the fact that I was becoming soaked between the pooling water and bleeding man.

When everything came into sync, my fingers fumbled gracelessly to his throat for a pulse in which none was met. They floated in front of his lips for a breath of life that never caressed my skin.

I closed my eyes. I closed them, but the lifeless expression of false peace still smiled at me. The injuries from a week ago opened and bleeding didn't bother me in the slightest. They didn't matter nearly as much as the fact that the body they inflicted was motionless. If he was injured and alive I could have saved him, but he had bled and died. Alone.

When I opened my eyes, I looked at the wall of the bathtub. In my haste and fog of finding John I didn't observe the scene. I was already becoming uncharacteristically unlike myself.

It didn't bother me nearly as much as it should have.

The words, however, were another story.

"_I'll burn the heart out of you, hm? The dragon burned your lovely, dashing princess to a crisp. You should have seen it coming, Sherlock. After all, every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain every now and then and I willingly filled that quota._

Underneath the message was a number meant for me to dial. I wasn't going to disappoint.

The gasp behind me alerted that Mrs. Hudson had found John like I had.

"What… what…" She was shocked and leaned against the frame of the door. The amount of shaking going through her small frame was alarming but I couldn't focus.

I flickered my gaze over John's face but emotions had fled the second the door opened. Moriarty had successfully burned the heart out of me. I couldn't find it in me to mourn or to hold sorrow. Instead, what I could tangibly feel was anger. White, raw anger and vengeance.

"He was murdered."

Mrs. Hudson's faintness turned to concern as she neared me. "Sherlock?"

Bless her heart but I didn't need her comfort. In a normal circumstance I would have comforted my surrogate mother. She had no part in this, she didn't know.

However, it seemed that the part of me convinced I was a machine was taking control after all. Pain? Hurt? Sadness? It fled and was carefully locked away until I could safely release them.

John was gone after all. The one individual in which I treasured more dearly than my own mind in some stances. The only person who I valued opinions greater than most and appreciated input. My only friend and potential lover if the change was admirable on both parties.

How could I have been so blind? So bloody useless?

"Is he?" She whispered softly, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the soldier in my arms.

I let my head fall and plucked my cell out of my pocket, already dialing Molly and Lestrade.

As the dial tone met my ears, I let out one sigh. One out of the many I wanted to give. "Yes. John Watson – captain, doctor, blogger, and friend – is dead."

* * *

><p><em>It seemed rather predictable doesn't it? Hm… well. That's why I apologized.<em>

_Also, might I say that before I added author notes this chapter topped at 6666 words? I think it's a sign if I ever had one._

_I'll try to get the next chapter up soon. I'm getting anxious and excited about finally finishing this story._

_Ciao, darlings._


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: So, I am happy and sad to say that I have all of my chapters written and typed out. I'm in the process of editing the final chapter and then I may post it all in one go. Who knows? Anyways, this chapter was very difficult to write. It has been finished for a week now, but because of my uneasiness about it and the choppy plot, I didn't know if I should just scratch it._

_There are two quotes in here that I used because they were really well-said. Since it's 7:28 am where I live and I have not slept in the past 24 hours, I am far too lazy at the moment to look for the quotes specifically, but the people who quoted them are Jeffrey Eugenides and Toni Morrison for those who are curious._

_I hate writing Sherlock in this chapter and I swear the next chapter will be better. I just wasn't feeling him here. Yes, normal people should be mourning but he isn't normal. He finds emotions bothersome so he's going to bottle them up until his case is done. Writing that was not as easy as the statement._

_By the way, I apologize. I'm a cliff-hanger addict and I really shouldn't be because that will abuse it._

_I'll try to post the next chapter soon. Working on another sad Johnlock one shot so that's something._

_For those who like A Fool's Promise, it will be updated soon-ish. I've been busy with orientation for my new job. ^^"_

_Read, review, follow, favorite. Enjoy. :) _

* * *

><p>A Detective for a Muse<p>

Chapter 25

**Sherlock POV**

I've heard many quotes in my lifetime pertaining to my apathetic interests and empty, cold stares that I apparently harbor and master in equal parts. Phrases from my brother or small quips from Lestrade when it seems I am at my worst in his opinion. Why they quote other individuals is beyond my understanding considering each quote has been made for a specific event and purpose and not directly to my own circumstance.

"_Your emotions are the slaves to your thoughts, and you are the slave to your emotions,"_ was one the few "mind-blowing" jeers the two have made in my direction. If I am correct, this was by Lestrade during a case in which I was emotionally detached from a traumatic patient. I heard a lot of names that day in the row of officials.

I didn't like emotions. It is with this statement that I begin to question myself. All I am, all I was, with John Watson was emotions. I felt protective of his virtue and strength. I craved to become something more concrete and abnormal than I have ever thought of. John Watson, as in most cases, was the exception to everything I was.

The reason this was, was because John Watson was emotion. He was the heart. He was the lingering, warm touch in a blizzard. The light that seemed too bright in the empty, resilient darkness. The consolation, the apology, the appreciation, the argument, and the attachment that seemed to orient around emotions.

There was never a day in which John Watson wouldn't show emotion. He smiled and laughed, whereas I would rather scoff and roll my eyes at the indecency of my surroundings known commonly as life.

But that was who John Watson was. He was the emotional part of the relationship we had to my logical mindset. Perhaps that is why we clashed so quickly and bonded almost immediately.

With all this said, I saw no point in being berated for my lack of expression.

Emotions, in my experience, aren't covered by single words. I don't believe in "sadness," "joy," or "regret." Maybe the best proof that the language is patriarchal is that it oversimplifies feeling.

A few of the inspectors at the flat whispered that I was angry, irritated, and mourning. All of this is laughable really. I don't know why it should be, but the thought that anger was making me cold and distant now compared to my past where it was my "freakish nature" amused me. I wasn't an unapproachable presence due to my personality but because of circumstance.

If John had been here in a less terminal bearing, he would no doubt be as amused as I was.

Anger… it's a paralyzing emotion. You can't get anything done. People sort of think it's an interesting, passionate, and igniting feeling – I don't think it's any of that – it's helpless… it's the absence of control – and I needed all of my skills, all of the control, all of my powers… and anger doesn't provide any of that – I had no use for it whatsoever.

So to say I was angry was almost admitting I was losing control, which I was not. In fact, I had never been more focused in my entire career as a consulting detective than this very case. It could be the loss of John Watson, the grieving I am not allowed to feel, or the white hot _frustration_ in me. It could be a multitude of things, but it would be guessing and speculation.

And I had not the slightest amount of time to possibly consider such theories. Time was of the essence.

Instead, I glanced at the number I had typed into my phone, preparing myself for what I assumed to be the final act in this case.

Before pressing the call button, I carefully observed the flat and its current visitors. Mrs. Hudson was hugging herself in the chair John used to sit in, distraught tears curling down her cheeks silently. It struck a chord seeing her like this, but I could do little to appease her without catching the killer.

Then my gaze landed on the detective inspector currently standing in place like he had been for the past five minutes.

In stark contrast to my amity, Lestrade was staring at the body as it was zipped into the body bag. The zipper could be heard throughout the whispering flat like an atomic bomb. The sharp flinch that went through the inspector was expected, but I didn't follow his disbelief.

I had no reason to shadow his shock, anger, or sadness. I saw no benefit in mourning beside the man who knew John almost as long as I had.

My emotions were shut in a box until I was safely able to deal with them.

It had been a constant beat in history for emotions to configure the success of one's endeavors and that was no different now. If I had allowed anger to color my vision and sadness to drag my feet, the odds of me catching the criminal I most abhorred would be slimmed to the lowest percentage.

Clarity was key and thus emotion was cut off. Apathy was very much welcomed in a realm of sadness.

There was, however, one pulsating thought that ran through my skull. It wasn't an emotion. It wasn't that simplified. No, this _feeling_ was far from an emotion. It would be accurate to call it an ambition of sorts, a questionable goal that may or may not be achieved.

The feeling was vengeance.

I myself had never experienced vengeance. I have known failure and disappointment, but this was a first for my thoughts to bring up so vividly.

Inside, I knew what would fix this strange fixation of justice.

The completion of this case. The death of Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal and all. An eye for an eye. Returning the favor. However it may be pronounced, those were the only treatments and remedies that would cure it. Perhaps it would not heal me completely, but it would begin the mend.

Whatever there was to fix in my cracked gears of a vessel.

Walking out of the flat was simple. Step by calculating step and I would be out of this place until I did what I said I would do.

Words buzzed around me, trying to reach my ears, but I ignored them easily. They were nothing more than bees that craved attention of a pollinated flower.

Disregarding the looks Anderson and Donovan shot my way were even easier. The combination of my past history with the duo and the pleasant company of apathy aided with this.

However, I couldn't deny that a few stray thoughts also kept my eyes away from their faces and voices. I knew what I would see there if I looked and I didn't wish to receive it simply.

Pity. That emotion that everyone hates at one point in their life. It was a bittersweet feeling that came at the worst of moments and from the wrong people. I didn't wish for their pity, their judgements, or their jibes of immorality. It was unnecessary for the case. It wouldn't succor to my advantage.

Shaking my head to clear the thoughts cramming for attention, I pushed myself towards the door quickly.

I was a step out the door when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. I knew it was Lestrade without looking at it. He was the only man who would ignore the fact that I didn't want to involve myself with the Yard in favor of personal consolation.

The temptation to groan, grimace, sigh, or shrug off the attempt was growing as Lestrade turned me around to face him.

Any other time I would have allowed him to go on for perhaps a few seconds before effectively pushing him away, but at this moment I wanted nothing more than to avoid the confrontation altogether.

Of course, he would see it the total opposite.

"Sherlock," he started. "John Watson is – was a good man."

"He was," I affirmed, not seeing where he was going with this.

Lestrade licked his lips and grimaced before going on.

"He had his demons, Sherlock. I saw him when he had his first panic attack. I was there to calm him down. He wasn't really… himself. He…"

"Get to the point if you would, Lestrade," I interrupted.

Shrugging, Lestrade sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as he met my eyes head on. "Maybe this wasn't murder like you say. Perhaps it was suicide."

I scoffed at the impossible idea. "Then how do you explain the message on the wall, hm? Oh yes, let's kill myself and blame it on my current enemy. Seems completely in the realms of possibility, inspector."

He flinched. "Look, I get it. You're hurting, Sherlock, and it is okay to mourn. You don't have to get irritated and annoyed about it. Certainly not around me." He motioned back at the flat. "We found the blade next to him and Anderson noticed the finger prints were his. It all points to suicide Sherlock, and John wasn't completely rational when he did this to himself so writing what he did could be possible."

The urge to strangle the inspector rose so unexpectedly that my fingers itched at my side.

"Lestrade," I warned carefully. "Please let me go. I have somewhere to be that does not involve you."

"Like solving a fruitless case that seems pretty straight on?" he countered before shaking his head. "I don't know Sherlock. Normally I would never doubt you, but this one time I believe we have it right."

"Right? You could not be any more wrong if you tried, inspector."

"Really? Look, what you need is to go comfort Mrs. Hudson. She does not need the additional worry of fretting if you are even rational out there, Sherlock. If you could, lose the irritation. I doubt that will help her at all," The ice in his voice was easy to detect but I was not affected in the way he wished.

"And let you lot massacre the case I have reason to finish? If I'm not like this I will get walked all over, inspector. I quite frankly see that as affecting the case I aim to complete efficiently." Sherlock laughed out loud, dragging a few glares, before setting his own glower on the inspector again. "If I don't get like this, I might as well move on. I think not."

"Sherlock," Lestrade tried again. "It's-"

"A murder. It was always a murder. I know it was whether you believe me or not. I will solve this, with or without your help. I have been able to solve these blasted cases prior to your involvement and I will continue to do so like I always have. Now, let me go, inspector. I believe we are finished."

Lestrade was stunned as he pulled his hand away, but I had no time to ponder an apology so unfitting to myself. I don't apologize. It isn't in my being to apologize. Lestrade will just have to understand.

When I peered behind him, Anderson and Donovan were whispering to each other. Glaring at them with equal measure, I watched as they went speechless and left to do what they were supposed to do that did not involve talking about the "freak" consulting detective.

Seventeen steps seemed like quite a bit longer than they should appear to be. Like I was going on forever, the steps never ceasing and the vengeance ever driving.

However, that was not the case. Within moments I was off the creaky steps and glancing at the phone once more. The number was still punched in, awaiting my eventual action.

Sparing a glance back up at the inspector who still stared after me, I turned away without looking back. After shutting the door, I called the number without hesitation.

The recipient answered on the first ring, much to my appreciation and curiosity.

I wasn't surprised when I heard the surprised gasp from the one I was aiming to deal with tonight. The dramatics and the quote only cemented who I knew was responsible.

"Oh look at this! Sherly! Oh what a pleasure. Did you like my little gift? I do say it must have been the finest of my craft in all my years of being the splendid consulting criminal I am. I am oh so curious what you think, however, so don't hold back on details," he purred and I rolled my eyes, not amused at all by his theatrics.

"It's only another murder, Jim."

The pout could be easily heard over the line. "Only a murder? Oh, Sherly. You wound me and I'm sure you maim the memory of your good doctor! Was he only another vessel to you after all?"

"I don't see why you're so surprised," I replied curtly, lying through my teeth with expertise. "I don't have friends and certainly nothing that could extend past that. You should know that."

Jim chuckled over the line before sighing dreamily. "That's not what a certain madam told me. You were desperately worried about your doctor, Sherlock. Just admit it."

Hardening my jaw, it took a minute before I could calmly reply. I decided to go straight to business since small talk only seemed to make the box of emotions harder to contain.

"I don't have time for games, Moriarty. I want to settle this. Once and for all."

"Aw. Why are you always to the point? So blunt I swear. I just don't see what that doctor saw in you," I heard a sigh before a snicker of glee. "Ah, you are no fun. What, did the death of your beloved affection to the eye kill your emotions? Did it actually burn out your heart? You know what they say about people who have no hearts. They overthink themselves into an easy grave."

There was a pause that I found no need to fill. "Are you sure you are not making the same choice? Imagine all of the possible cases I could throw at you _without you knowing it was even me!_ Oh it would be splendid. You don't have to rush into things, Sherlock. Think of all the fun we could have."

I scoffed. No need to rush things? "You must not know me as well as you think you do."

A heavy silence filled the call with static interfering every so often before a thoughtful voice filtered through. "Perhaps I do not."

Hailing a cab down, I ignored the pregnant pause meant for my explanation.

"Where to, Jim?"

The smile could be heard a mile away if possible. "Oh you know. The first case where you and John had your first moment of loyalties? The clever woman writing about me? She was quite the little snitch."

He didn't have to clarify. I knew exactly where he was asking me to go. Well, not necessarily asking.

"Oh, and Sherlock. Come alone. No pestering army-" A laugh followed suit, loud and clear as Moriarty found something funny. "But wait, you have no one to bring do you?"

I didn't reply, hanging up immediately as I caught sight of the cab heading my way.

The first place I decided to go to was morgue to see Molly. That was the only place I would find her right now considering what had happened. She was bound to be observing John's body for a certain prognosis.

When I walked in the door, I noticed she was staring at John's body. She had yet to do the Y-incision along his chest or even taken off his clothing. Her hands were lifted, gloved in latex, but refused to move. She looked sad mostly but that was Molly. She was much like John in terms of emotions. Now that I think of it, most people were like John.

I guess that made me the exception.

Molly couldn't meet my eyes. That was the first thing I noticed. She couldn't look me in the eye and instead stared at my shoes like they were fascinating. I didn't know if it was out of awkward tendencies or because she was anxious. There must have been a way to tell the difference but I couldn't remember the method for the life of me, emotions barring certain information in a veil of sadness.

Walking up to Molly only caused her to tilt her head up only slightly.

"I need your help." At that her neck snapped up and she was meeting my eyes with wide eyes. If I hadn't known the emotion in my line of work, I would say the look she was giving me was almost pleading. Like she was asking me not to do what I planned to – which was preposterous. She didn't know what I had yet to tell her and what I planned to not reveal.

Or at least the important ones that needn't be spoken about.

"What do you need?" She murmured, the look not gone but the determination I dubbed her for shining in her eyes. Good. That's who I needed right now. The stubborn Molly who would look for the cause of death regardless of lack of symptoms or evidence.

"You."

She offered a shaky smile and wiped some tears away before nodding.

I told her the plan. What I wanted her to do. What I wished for her to do. What her part was in all of this. These aspects were spoken and she listened well, only pausing when she had to give me looks of emotion I couldn't begin to fathom.

Once she nodded in understanding, I walked over to John. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, holding it in, before letting it out.

"_I will avenge you, John. As an apology for dragging you into my messes and as a consolation for a life you never asked for_," I murmured softly before leaving the morgue without another word.

I sent a text to my brother once the crisp London air hit me, not willing to listen to his droning voice telling me how stupid and foolish this was. I was already aware of this with growing anticipation.

However, it seemed that I had no say in the call I received soon after.

"This is a first," he began with mild surprise reflected in his tone. "Normally we meet under more unorthodox means. What has you calling me besides the loss of your blogger?" I winced and then berated myself for releasing said emotion.

I repeated exactly what I told Molly. He listened and pointed out little mistakes in my methods but I wasn't listening to him for advice. I already had my idea in mind. All that was left was to put it into action.

"Do you know what you are getting yourself into, Sherlock?" The question showed an uncharacteristic amount of care. Apparently this night was a night of firsts. "This is a consulting criminal you are facing you do realize."

I laughed. "Fit for a consulting detective, wouldn't you agree?" I hung up and went back to the flat. I had to retrieve and few things and I couldn't do so in the eyes of the Yard. I was already a supposed drug-addict (they weren't necessarily wrong) and a questionable ally with a tendency to experiment on body parts (also not wrong). I didn't need their suspicion to add onto the struggles of this case.

And when I opened the door and saw that no one resided in the flat, not even the pesky inspector, I let out a sigh of relief and proceeded to grab what I wished.

At least, I attempted to do so. In the end, I was pacing around the open floor of the empty lounge, wringing my hands and adjusting my coat every so often of the non-existent fallacy.

I tried to focus on the case. It was the sole reason I was doing all of this after all. I thought of everything that didn't bring up John's name. I knew that the second I thought of him and allowed emotion to linger, I was going to make a grave mistake that was bound to kill me.

So I forced every smile and laugh he made into a room. I tugged his admirable determination and stubbornness into another room. Locked the doors and hid the keys until I could safely relish such fantasies long past.

Still, I had problems. Every so often, something would leak through the cracks and I would have to pause to push it back.

Much like John was a force not to be underrated, his memories were even more so. They fought back my revolt with vigor.

I wanted to forget some of these memories. I wished to erase them and not think about them.

But that would be violating the memory, wouldn't it be?

After all, he was more to me than most people – actually all people in retrospect – in both realms of friendship and affection. He… intrigued me and completed me.

I suppose that made erasing his memory similar to deleting a part of myself, hm?

Walking into John's room was the hardest thing to do but I succeeded, grabbing his pistol with only the smallest of flinches in the contact and placing it in my inner coat pocket.

My fingers automatically claimed John's phone before I could stop myself and I found myself unable to return it, simply placing it in a coat pocket and ignoring its existence.

Walking down to the front of the flat once more, I left and hailed a cab to the inevitable confrontation.

The ride to the scene was quicker than most cab rides. Time didn't feel like it was slowing down but speeding up. Of course, I knew it wasn't. It was only the adrenaline coursing through my veins and the anticipation I had towards the actions I was going to be performing in no less than half an hour. My vessel was reacting as it should be with the fight or flight complex even if I preferred it not to.

With a murmur from the driver and a quick flick of a few pounds, I exited the cab and calmly ascended to the entrance.

When I stopped at the door, I hesitated briefly. I pondered knocking, being polite, but then I realized this was far from what the criminal deserved and walked in unceremoniously.

Moriarty smiled at me the second I found him lounging on the white-covered sofa. He was munching on an apple, almost done in fact, when I sat across from him.

"You know. There was that one story with a man who was hung with his stomach slashed so the impact of the tension made his insides splatter out. I was tempted to do the same to you, but why would I repeat past masterpieces? It seemed a tad… pointless. It would be funny though. Ironic. Showing people you do have a heart with it splattering to the ground below you."

Moriarty laughed heartily as I leaned forward, elbows on knees. I could feel the gun in my pocket and judging by the gleam in Moriarty's eye, he was aware of this as well.

"Where is Sebastian?"

"Oh. Sebby?" Moriarty made a dismissive wave. "He's doing something else for me."

The consulting criminal leered forward, grinning madly and looking the part. I watched apathetically as he proceeded to purr, "You know, it's hard to trap you. Really hard. The only thing left was to go after your loved ones… but it seemed you have lost the ability to love with John gone. Such a shame. I actually liked him."

I grimaced but caught it before it could show.

"Then what are we doing? I suppose you have not summoned me to speak of our past demons mutually."

Jim let out a surprised gasp. "We? Oh no. No. It will be you, Sherly. I will be walking Scott free. Will be free as a bird until the next detective who thinks he's as good as you and I."

I rose a brow, seeing through the fib as if it was made of water.

The smile Moriarty sported soon fell into serious scorn. "Ah, you know me too well it seems. My fault I guess. I'm sort of an open book." He held out his hands and shrugged half-heartedly.

"You're going to be bored," I commented drily, narrowing my eyes.

And the consulting criminal proceeded to throw himself back onto the sofa like a child throwing a tantrum. "Beyond bored. I'm going to be practically comatose with the lacking intrigue of your lovely self I'll have to deal with. God. I might as well die with you to save me from the boredom I could suffer from."

"Is that why you are here with me then? To die with me?"

He scoffed. "That is too dramatic, even for you. Romeo and Juliet? Shakespeare in the flesh? No. I don't care much for theatre despite my dramatics. I do plan to die, but it won't be until I know I won't have to worry about some Lazarus effect from you."

I eyed him carefully, seeing our conversation unfolding to its closure.

"What exactly do you have in mind?"

Moriarty revealed a gun. It was roughly the same type, if not the exact model, as John's. I stared at it nonplussed from the choice he made.

"Really? A gun. A shot to the head? It seems rather overdone if I do say so myself."

Moriarty stared at the gun fondly, rotating it to peer at it from different angles as if amazed. "Huh. I see it fitting actually. Shooting our intelligence to shreds. But no. You are correct, Sherlock, as always. I want it to be a bullet to the heart, well, what's left of yours anyhow."

I still wasn't impressed. This was subtle and simple. It wasn't what I expected and to say I was disappointed was putting it lightly. I had a whole mess of possibilities for this meeting and the last ones I thought would never be chosen were the ones brought up. What a shame honestly. If I had to be put down, there had to be better methods in doing so.

"I would have expected better from you, Jim," I deadpanned. "A whole scene on top of a roof top even."

He smiled brightly. "Oh don't worry. I briefly pondered that death. How could I not? However, with John being out of the picture, it made the whole scene rather redundant. I couldn't have had you jump to your death if your blogger wasn't there to mourn. It wasn't justified."

"Justified?"

Moriarty shrugged. With a flick of his wrist he pointed his gun at me, lowering it to aim directly at my heart.

"You know. I will admit this is quite boring. I like shows but hate dramatics. A paradox in itself, isn't it? Still, this has been dragging on longer than I expected." He let out a sigh and pursed his lips in thought. "Sebastian is going to be lost without me. Probably go on some killing spree over my loss. He is rather reckless, the boy."

"I can see where he gets it from."

The click of the gun followed my words.

"Yes, I suppose I did mold him perfectly, didn't I?" he replied with a fond smile.

"You should be proud." The sarcasm dripped off my tongue but Moriarty simply grinned and glanced pointedly at the barrel I could clearly see.

"Well, any last words? I don't have forever to chat with you I'm afraid."

I didn't have any I wished to speak to him, no. He probably expected a plea or a monologue on my worth but I wasn't going to offer any.

"Color me surprised. I expected an "I will kill you for killing my beloved!" or perhaps a "Hello, my name is Sherlock Holmes. You killed my blogger. Prepare to die." I didn't expect silence from you of all people. Always full of surprises you are." Fixing his aim, he added, "Well, it was nice toying with you. The best really. See you in hell, if such a thing exists, Sherly."

And then, with a pull of the trigger, the gun went off.


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Definitely the shortest chapter I have made in these final chapters, however, I couldn't make it longer._

_I don't have much to say. As much as I enjoy cliff hangers, I wanted to post this chapter because the next chapter will take a bit to organize. Final editing and such. _

_In a way, this was also really hard to edit. Sherlock is a difficult man to write about when emotions force themselves. It's like personification if you will. _

_I will admit, I do have a special amount of fondness for the end (you will see what I talk about). I don't know why._

_Read, review, follow, favorite._

_I don't own Sherlock._

_Ciao~_

* * *

><p>A Detective for a Muse<p>

Chapter 26

**Sherlock POV**

There was always a theory that, depending on the model of phone one carries, a cellular device could provide valid protection from an oncoming bullet. Due to the thickness and compact detail of the electronic parts, mixed in with the additional durability of phones of various models and years, it wasn't too much of a stretch to see how this was done. The bruises that flourished soon after would be painful to say the least, but you were still alive to tell the tale as they say.

Or so the theory suggests anyhow.

In all my list of countless experiments and theories I have tested for my own personal curiosity or in the name of a case that needed to be solved, I never truly tested this idea. I never had the time nor the correct individual brave enough to comply their life into my pliable hands.

Additionally, it seemed rather improbable but not impossible judging by the intense popularity in older phones and their success in deflection.

In all reality, I never had the time to ponder such curiosities.

Which made my situation very amusing considering how this all panned out. It was interesting and not at all what I had planned and that was something to admit considering all the possibilities I thought of before entering this flat.

I had a plan or a multitude, and an idea set in stone with the right people. I had thought of everything in a quick succession of prompts and probability. Each person necessary for each scenario had been correctly informed of their duty and the purpose they had during my sketchy plan at best.

And in the end it was John's phone catching the bullet aimed at my heart that changed everything.

I did fall back and I could feel the bruise forming almost instantly. My skin burned with the sudden heat of the bullet transferring into the phone which only enhanced my discomfort of the forming bruise. The gasp of lost air followed soon after along with the impulse to perhaps check for a wound. There was a brief moment of stillness before I realized that I was not bleeding.

If I had worn a white shirt, I suppose my cover would have been blown. Moriarty would have seen that I was not, in fact, bleeding out onto the couch with gasps echoing in my blatant suffering. With that, he surely would have shot another round that would have surely been fatal.

In all reality, the odds that the bullet hit John's phone at all (along with his phone even being able to dodge the bullet so effectively) was slim. I did not want to call it luck. I didn't believe in luck. It was just another word for coincidence which I found even more absurd. Nonetheless, "luck" was the only word that stuck out.

The growing "luck" that I chose to wear the purple shirt John seemed to always approve of along with my dark Belstaff coat made this word hard to deny. The shot, the attire, the perfect placement of Johns mobile, it was all one misconception of luck I did not want to believe and was forced to. Moriarty could have pointed the gun anywhere else and I would have bleed profusely, exerting the plan I had set aside almost instantly.

All of this was definitely putting my plans into an 180 degree, but I refused to let it show.

I had a role to play after all. Granted it was not the role I thought I would go with, it was the chance that had presented itself.

My eyes remained open as my harsh breathing changed from realism to pretense. I hitched my breath and made a motion to grasp at my chest where the bullet would have punctured my heart. I didn't need to fear about my skin tone getting paler considering I was already ridiculously light-toned enough. All that I needed to top it off was to avert my stare to Moriarty.

And he was drinking it up as I had planned. He was either too delirious to realize I was faking or he truly thought he had succeeded. Like minds think alike and I'm sure he didn't consider the unruly odds of "luck" playing a part as much as I.

Moriarty leered at me, step by step until he was only a foot away. He was snickering at first like he found my "demise" amusing. Like a wolf watching a snow white rabbit bleed into the snow.

Then the giggles changed to laughter, loud and resonating around the room fully. It sounded hysterical with disbelief.

"You're dying, Sherlock! Oh God just look at you! You're not going to last long with that bullet. I'm sure it hurts doesn't it? I'm sure you can just _feel_ the blood running over your skin. How's your heart? How's it pumping with that little clog of metal?"

I couldn't say anything. It would give myself away. So I eventually let my breath falter and become shallower until it could barely be heard. My chest gradually appeared to still with how slight my breathing protruded.

My eyes slipped shut. It was a disadvantage on my part, but it was easier to fake my death with my eyes closed, especially with how close Moriarty was.

"Hey Sherly?" he whispered deliriously. "You there? Are you…" a giggle, "…dead? I must admit that I am bittersweet about it, you know." I didn't have to have my eyes open to know he was slowly approaching my still form.

"Sherlock?" he tapped my nose quickly. "How are you hanging? Those last few threads must be thinning, huh?"

Another step and he was toe to toe with me, leaning in with itching fingers I imagined.

_Patience_ I warned myself calmly. I had to time this right. If I didn't it would surely end badly for myself.

Jim gradually got closer and closer with growing anticipation. He seemed incredibly antsy with disbelief.

When Moriarty's fingers got close enough to check for a pulse and respiration, I acted.

The consulting criminal gasped when my hand shot out to grab his wrist. Pulling him forward, I leaned into his ear and whispered harshly, "This is from the late Captain John Watson."

I used my other hand to grab the pistol in my coat and proceeded to shoot Moriarty until there were no bullets remaining. A part of me realized this was an overreaction, that one bullet to the heart or head would be enough to kill him. The logical side said that I was being rash and too emotional.

But I had a feeling it would not have felt more satisfying if I hadn't done what I did. One bullet was simply not enough and if I had more bullets, they would still all go into this criminal that took away someone dear to me.

In front of me, motionless and presumably dead, was Moriarty. Blood was seeping into the carpet from the various holes sporadically placed across his body, but no signs of life made themselves known. Even when I checked for his pulse and breath, I found none. He wouldn't have had the time to slow his heart beat within the seconds I gave him so I grimly accepted his death.

Standing once more, I caught a brief glance of the shocked smile on the criminal's face like his death was what he wanted and scoffed. Unlike him, I wasn't going to become bored without him. I wasn't going to absolutely die of tedium and monotony to the point shooting myself seemed relatively exciting. I had my cases. I had Mrs. Hudson. Besides, death was very unlike me.

I heard the running and knew who was coming up even before the door flew open. Grabbing Moriarty's similar pistol, I pointed it at the door the second Sebastian ran in and shot him once in the chest.

The man fell and gasped on the ground, cursing and swearing as I dropped the weapon temporarily. If I had not thought this over in my many plans, I suppose I would have attempted to hide the weapons and evidence.

I had never shot a man in all my cases. There have been moments where shooting someone would prove significantly easier than what I did perform, but I still held a certain reluctance. It was too quick and messy. Additionally, in contradiction to popular opinion, I was not void of heart in the act of taking someone's life. It was reckless to shoot first and ask questions later and that's what most individuals did nowadays.

However, when I shot Moriarty, I didn't think of any of that and upon that realization it wasn't too far a leap to suspect that I was not the same detective.

Sitting on the couch, I let out a heavy sigh, finally, and pulled out my phone.

This was my one and only mistake in the ending of this case. I didn't check both victims of which I shot. I knew one was most certainly dead, however, I did not check Sebastian. A flaw that could have been avoided.

So the second I heard the shot and felt the burn and pain in my back, I cursed my recklessness. Heaving to my feet with only the smallest of stumbles, I aimed the borrowed gun at Sebastian's head and fired, pleased when it went on its intended mark. He fell backwards onto the floor soon after, staring blankly at the ceiling.

I crumbled soon after, the couch barely catching me. Damage control was prioritized first.

"Damn," I cursed as I felt the blood soak in my shirt. It kept running down and created a bigger stain as the seconds wore on. "Pulse is increasing substantially. Heart rate and blood pressure following suit. Shock is soon to follow."

Speaking my symptoms eased the situation at hand and I found myself quoting most of my symptoms like John tended to do.

A gasp fled my mouth as I tried to lift my body to the couch. It wasn't as if it was hard to do. That was certainly not it. It was the inability to tilt my back at any angle in case in increased blood loss. Any twist and turn only increased the burn and outcry of pain that I wished to prevent at all costs.

"Still breathing and alive, obviously. The bullet was terribly made and did not hit any major organs from first glance." I panted for a moment, forcibly catching my breath for a moment before lifting my arms. Pulling my shirt away, I nodded and leaned back with a hiss. "The bullet went straight though. Not clogged in my body. No doubt bleeding freely on both sides. If still, it will eventually clog and slow down the bleeding."

It was obvious that I had to focus on the shock. The blood loss may not kill me but the shock very well may.

Letting out a sigh, I attempted to take deep breaths, wincing with each respiration. That isn't going to work alone. I had to attempt to calm myself. I needed to focus.

My thoughts drifted to Red Beard.

The dog that was my first and foremost friend of my childhood in the days that Mycroft was a blasted git who would choose studies over entertaining my childish ambitions. The one constant that usually seemed to aid in times such as these. This time, however, it only seemed to help a pinch.

Then they fled to my first accomplishments as a detective. The adrenaline rush and the smugness that I knew something the yard did not. Solving a case and knowing it was myself that did so. Again, these thoughts only helped very little.

Lastly, and with heavy reluctance, I thought of John. I thought of his determination when helping people and the strength that I admired in him the most. The fact that he had been abducted and tortured too many times in the last few months and hasn't fallen down despite it all.

His voice soon overwhelmed my thoughts with internal dialogue of my symptoms and bringing my shock to a standstill. It was a soothing, warm tone accompanied with worried eyes and a crease just above the brow. He was needlessly worrying and I knew that if he was here he would have scolded me with a "You could have died!"

But I didn't so his concern would be unfounded in this circumstance.

Still, I let his worry and frantic words wash over me as I stared at the ceiling.

Oddly enough, that's what calmed me down in the end.

Molly stumbled in soon after, a first aid kit in her fists as she crouched in front of the sofa. She was gasping and panicking as she saw my wound at first but then took a deep breath and focused immediately. Ripping my shirt open, she coaxed it off my body with my coat.

At that point, the John in my head had numbed to the back of my mind, unneeded now that real help was here. I found myself missing the company quickly and sighed, ignoring the look that Molly gave me for it.

"How did you know to come? I didn't even text you."

She shrugged. "Mycroft kind of called me. He gave me the address and told me to be here immediately."

I rolled my eyes and groaned. Of course it was my pest of a brother. Well, I suppose this was the one time where his assistance was needed. That did not mean I was going to thank him, obviously, but the gratitude was still barely there.

Molly was efficient, wrapping my wounds expertly and quickly. It was obvious in her eyes that she was panicking, but that still didn't change her work ethic gratefully. Silence engulfed us as she stretched gauze and cleaned out my wounds from the risk of infection.

Soon after, I heard the clack of oxfords as Mycroft strode in, immediately directing his men to clean the scene and to get rid of the bodies quickly. He didn't say it, but I knew from the tone that he meant not to leave a spot.

After giving orders, he turned his unamused glare to me. "What happened to the plans you had given? Those were certainly none of the sort you presented."

"They changed. I had a list of plans, Mycroft, and Moriarty fell for the one I least expected." I pulled out John's phone out of my coat pocket and heard the gasp from Molly as they saw the bullet indented in the electronic.

When I glanced at Mycroft, even he had an impressed expression. A first in a long time.

"Indeed." He turned to glare at a man who was struggling with carrying Moriarty temporarily before returning his attention to me. "Well, you were utterly reckless. You could have died, Sherlock."

"But I didn't," I pointed out wearily, coughing with the breathing being strained through the bandages on my midsection.

"You were lucky," Mycroft sniffed and I smirked at him.

"Oh brother dearest. You know as well as I that luck had nothing to do with this. When did you ever think luck had a part in anything?"

Mycroft was about to retort but with a surprising glare from Molly, he kept his mouth shut and went back to ordering his lackeys. Within half an hour at most, he left the flat, leaving Molly and myself.

The flat looked as pristine and empty as it did prior to my engagement.

Molly gave me an apologetic look as she gave my clothing back. The purple shirt was ruined, but I didn't mind. It was only clothing after all. I could always look for another if I need to.

Throwing my jacket on, Molly helped me down the stairs and hailed a cab to send me home.

Well, not really home. More like a place of rest now. John wasn't there and while Mrs. Hudson was a dear, she could never fill the spot John had.

I always made a point to tell John that I was never one for sleeping. It was boring and pointless. It ceased productivity of any type of activity.

However, the second I hit the bed in John's bedroom, I slept like the dead for the first time in quite a long time.

A few weeks later a funeral was held for John. I didn't attend. For one I knew I would not be accepted in an area where I have to pertain to being social with those I could care less about. Secondly, it was rather unlike myself to attend such an event to talk about John and his achievements. No, I couldn't go.

However, a week after the burial, I did go to the cemetery where John was buried. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade joined me and we walked through the grave site, stones reacting coldly.

It was a brisk morning with the frosty dew holding onto the leaves of the dying trees. Everything seemed distant in this place which was fitting considering its purpose.

I couldn't quite place why, but I didn't like it. It was… a feeling that I didn't like placed together even though I was the prime example of both traits.

After a minute of silent walking, I realized this was because of the man who was now a tenant here. He was warm, kind, and a bright presence. It was that personality in which I valued and the parts of him that were numbed with the cold cemetery tombstones distancing himself from the surface.

The stone didn't do John justice.

As everything around us, it was cold and lifeless. It didn't present John's memory at all in the way it should have been seen as. The stone made his memory as brief as the rest of those whom resided here.

I watched as Mrs. Hudson placed a bouquet of roses on the grave, weeping silently despite it being well over a month since the good doctor's death.

Lestrade bowed his head in respect for a minute and then walked with Mrs. Hudson back to the front of the cemetery.

I, on the other hand, remained.

I glanced at the stone and I hated it even more.

My mouth opened even before I realized what I was saying.

"A part of me resents you, John Watson. The part of me that abhors the idea that you have stalled my machinery and brought in the insufferable concepts of emotions. You made me a _person_. I _felt_ things I never did. I _did _things I found revolting prior to your arrival. These things would have never been done without your presence. You changed me, John, and I don't know if I can forgive you for such alterations.

"But, the other half is oddly grateful by the changes you have added. You always had this look of determination despite being lost, near death, or on the brink of depression as I have recently been brought to the light of. I apologize for that, by the way. Dearly.

"You were selfless in a sense that might as well be called selfish. Additionally, you were a terrible martyr and an awful influence, but one of the most valued friends I could have never deserved." I chuckled but even to my ears it sounded empty and lifeless.

"So, John, I will say a few words now even though logically I have already spoken more about you now than I ever have and you won't hear this anyhow. It's not probable that an afterlife truly exists. In fact, I'm sure it doesn't. Still, it's the amity of it all in theory that brings consolation with the pretense."

I took a deep breath, already feeling my voice becoming hoarse. "People called you a lot of things. They have called you a soldier, a captain, a traitor, and a murderer. I've heard you tell me your past and I find it absurd the things that have happened to you and because of you. You claim you are no longer a captain and yet what confidence you sported in your life. You were not talented but how many people were touched by your words?"

Softly, I whispered. "I was one of them."

This was becoming a monologue. The words I were saying would never hear him, but I couldn't stop rambling despite this.

"I know you have thought you were not a good friend or a possible lover if the chance arrived, but you must have realized that you found the most terrible person who was willing to risk just that. You were a tangent, John, the exception to every rule as over romanticized and sickly sweet as it were.

"But you were a good man. A book half-finished when I found you and while I will not know the full extent of your story, I… am happy, well, content for now to have known you for most of it."

My voice was cracking, the chilly air finally filtering down. I knew that if I spoke any longer, it would not be heard mostly because it would not be spoken.

So I turned away and took a step to follow Mrs. Hudson.

However, that step was quickly refunded as I turned around and faced his grave once more.

"You know what? No. John, if there was any rational and probably possibility of you returning… please, come back. I hate showing emotions as they are the weakness of humanity in all reality, but, like I said before, I am a changed man and the altered part of me needs you." I cleared my throat but the broken syllables in my voice still filtered through. "So… please. Don't be dead."

Before I could say anymore unnecessary words, I turned around and walked away from the grave of one of the most valued people in my life, breaths shaky and hands trembling but not from the cold.


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: So, no. The last chapter was not the last chapter. That's why it isn't completed._

_When I wrote the flashbacks I had for John out, I had them all planned. However, I must admit I panicked towards the end because I never clarified this one. Well, better late than ever and it actually works as a buffer for the next and last two chapters. _

_Final flashback and then two final chapters. It's… something. If I can swing it, I'll try to post the next chapter today or tomorrow but I actually got a job so who knows what will happen with my fandom-bedroom life._

_Enjoy the chapter and I'm sorry that it is a filler/barrier._

_Read, review, follow, favorite. Enjoy the chapter._

_Ciao~_

* * *

><p>A Detective for a Muse<p>

Chapter 27

**John's POV**

You know, the stories never had it right. The words and sentences on pages that were often rhapsodized for a fallacious source of entertainment. They were lies, mere forms of fantastical events to intrigue and even influence.

History was better but still not on par. I don't necessarily mean history in the context of the past for back then it was the present in a sense. When I pronounce history, denounce it of its credibility, I mean the books that educates us in school or the tales we hear from relatives and strangers. Everything is debriefed and censured to appease the common ground.

I should have expected this, however, I am a hopeful man. Hopefully hopeless most of the time, to perfectly describe it. Optimistic is another word for this, looking on the bright side of things when at times there couldn't be any more light than a shade lighter of grey in a room of pitch black darkness. Perhaps I should have let this characteristic of myself drop and shatter when I realized my path was only going to become less stable as time wore on, but how was I supposed to know?

There really isn't a way to know. The past is to learn from, to relate, to alter, to believe or ignore to one's own benefits and faults. The present is a present as many say since it is the time given to decide what the scrolls of the past wars and debates and appreciate them in your own context, in my own context. Lastly, there was the future.

Alas, it is eternally unknown. Meteorologists don't know any more about the weather than we know about our own demise. They can predict, can test and experiment, but it doesn't mean it will be certain. That's why the future is unpredictable. It's always changing in accordance to actions of the past and present.

So, of course, I was never going to figure it out. A simple army captain with pride high enough to never be seen.

Yet, the books never did much justice. About war. About the battles. About the losses.

In the books, they over-romanticized the outcome. The soldier comes home and the girl is waiting to kiss him like the world ended in his leaving and was just saved when he stepped back. They emotionalize the great amount of gratitude and respect that is placed on the unmarked soldier's shoulders and the permanent tattoo of "Honor" and "Loyalty" written in his eyes like fate had inscribed it herself.

For history, it's something else. They come back and, depending on the circumstance and the result, they may get applause or the looks that depict a despicable bullet and clenched hands that intend to dig the soldiers' graves. Pride is the factor, the woman, which either caresses your face with her silk-like palms, or slaps you with the "Honor" and "Loyalty" stripped when you failed your duty. Struggles ensue in the government, in Parliament and the Crown, but that's all history tends to retell.

Reality is harsher and you would think I would have learned that the second I began to understand it was never fair.

The books retell a perfect world in which after-effects don't exist and history doesn't usually speak of them unless they are significant or dramatically altered and important of the time. PTSD? Suicide? Depression? Neither speak of this nor acknowledge it to the point of valid conclusions. They don't point out how many couples break apart or the rate of unemployment or any of those valid factors that come when you normally get out of the army.

Luckily, we don't deal with those scenarios too often to actually credit such. If you leave the military now, it's not because of a full on war between begrudging countries and defensive pride. Now it's because you either wish to, medical deployment or because of misconduct.

Well, that is if you actually had a usual military career.

Mine was cut short. Not by choice and certainly not by will. It was… a situation I wish I was more aware of at the time.

However, that scene that caused me to leave was also the start of something else. It was a switch. A light switch that caused electricity to comply into a circuit. A parallel circuit with matching voltage and intensity at which each event afterward is affecting me at the same degree and backlash.

As the usual, once it is flipped up, you can never flip it back down.

I awaited the other foot to fall, the catch to all the silence I was receiving despite the fact that a week earlier my family had been told of my arrival and the circumstance for it. It was too quiet and I knew that things were going to be worse than any mission I ever took up for the Army.

Few people said farewell when I left and I couldn't necessarily blame them. In a way, almost everyone that I knew lost someone in my recent failure. I refused to look them in the eye not out of fear but because I already knew what I was going to see there.

Once on the plane back to my homeland, those demons that claw at your back and whisper bitter memories into your skull were the only other flyers. They coaxed and prodded at every negative thought I had, blossoming it into a vine of thorns. I was alone on that plane and yet I was cramped and unable to breathe. Two words kept circling around without the resolve to simply fade away.

Loyalty and Honor.

Two specific demons that taunted me back relentlessly in hopes that I will get angry or even worse, depressed. Granted, I will admit that I was going to end up along the latter no matter what I did (for seeing a therapist was never going to happen), I didn't want to appear broken to my family.

And thus I remained a soldier for a while longer as I witnessed the terrors known as my thoughts.

The long ride back to my home town was a stressful one with all that said. I wasn't looking forward to my family – to my father in particular. I'm sure they both heard of the news, and I currently had no idea as to where they stood. If they believed the lie Sebastian spoke of, or if they saw through it as easily as most of those who judged me.

I had no fears for Harry. She would always see through the lies. She _knew_ me more than my own father even. I would have no qualms with her when I meet her again.

My father, however, is a different story.

When I got off the plane and saw Harriet standing next to her car that was about as much of the answer I needed of where he stood. It seems like it was going to be a rain check as far as easy-going afternoons went. Well, it's not like I should have expected anything better.

The ride home was quiet until it seemed that Harry couldn't take it anymore.

"You didn't do it on purpose," she said with conviction and I smiled, relieved. "You were not at fault. I _know_ you. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Harry. There was no wrong place at the wrong time about what happened. It was just… a planned massacre." I sighed and closed my eyes for a moment. "As much as I would like to say it wasn't my fault, it ultimately is. I should have seen it coming sooner. I should have picked out the unusual attitude-"

A smack in my shoulder had me glaring at my sister.

She was staring ahead, shaking her head with exasperation. "Are you even listening to yourself, John? I should have done this. I should have done that. John, there was no way you could have known and if you still think there could have been a way for you to doubt one of your closest comrades then you're a bloody idiot."

I rubbed my shoulder and chuckled. "Well, it's nice to know I have my sister on my back when I apparently am acting stupid."

"Damn straight," she affirmed with a grin.

When we got home, Harry tried to warn me of what was coming but I was already prepared. She didn't need to tell me anything that I already knew.

"John, look. Dad is not happy about this. He thinks it's your fault and he's probably drunk." I walked out of the vehicle and when my father stumbled out the door, I was already ready for what was going on.

My father's drunk reputation was nothing new to me. He was as sober as they come when my mother was around, but after her passing he went into a spiral downwards. The cold chill of a beer bottle or the clammy glass of a pint were his only friends. For the past few years he kept it under his belt, but when something major came up he would just turn back with another deep dip into the alcoholic pool.

So I already knew his habits.

He was all bark and no bite. Words, insults, proclamations, and arguments were his favorite and I was ready for them. Probably not for the sting or the pain they caused me, but for the preparation that they will happen I was.

"Why is a traitor of the country he fights for coming home?" my father slurred, stumbling and grasping at the bottle in his hand and the door frame at which he rested.

His hair was sticking all over and a thick stubble had grown over his chin. He looked as if he hadn't changed in months and that brought a grimace to my face.

Harry, for her credit, quickly stood next to me, raising her voice as she was known for. "You know he wasn't at fault for this! If anyone should know, it should be you. You're our father. You raised us!"

The glare he sent her way was shriveling and I didn't miss the flinch that went through her.

"Oh shut up, darling," he crooned sarcastically. "You're just as corrupted as he is. Marrying a bloody woman instead of a man. Where did we go wrong your mother and I?"

That's when I started speaking. I originally was going to let my father vent and rant, claim and jab, until he passed out or ran out of words to say. I was going to let him do whatever he needed to move on, but the second he began to take it out on Harry I realized I couldn't remain passive.

If there was anyone I was more protective of it was her.

"Look, you have all the right to yell at me. Bloody hell, might as well go ahead and do whatever will make you finally believe me or let me into the house. I am fine with hearing your insults and drunken words, but you have nothing to hold against Harry. She has no part in this." My words were cold. I had never spoken to my father like this. I never spoke to _family_ like this.

But I wasn't going to let him walk all over us. I was still a soldier and I had my morals.

"I have everything to hold against you two," he countered, stumbling as he got closer. Harry took a step back, but I held my ground. "Ever since your mum died nothing has been the same. Everyone is changing and becoming corrupted with some sin."

"Like you with your vanity and alcohol?" I challenged but he didn't hear me, continuing on.

"I thought you were saved by all of this when you joined the Army and flew the ranks." He laughed out loud and almost fell with the action. "I thought that maybe we finally had a good batch of a sane and justified family."

He took another risky step. "But no. Kill a whole team of good men. You are corrupted, son. You are worse than Harriet. Worse than any Watson I've come to know."

"It wasn't my fault!" I cried out, trying to make this point clear before he got violent. I was becoming frustrated. I didn't know what happened to my father when I left for the military, but I didn't like it. He was changing as much as he said the world was.

"Yes it was and you know it." He was now two meters away from me. The scrunched up face and red tint was concerning but not as much as his attitude. "Who led them? Who told them to go to their death? Who didn't die in the crossfire? Oh, I don't know, you perhaps."

I had enough. "You're irrational, father. You've drunk too much. You know me more than anyone, as Harry said before. How are you doubting me now?"

"Because you're not the same as when your mother was here. You were a good man then. You were what I wanted you to be. Loyal, honorable, a leader. Now, you're just a fool. A murdering fool who has tainted the name of every Watson."

I let out a laugh, bitter and angry. "What name? The name of the town drunk? Because that's all I hear concerning our name."

I didn't miss the narrowing of his eyes. "Now you listen to me, boy," he spat out.

My body was shaking with anger. I was angry at this man and I was in pain because of this man. Of all people I expected to resolve this tension, I thought it would be him. He was a good man before all of this. The mediator, the negotiator, the one who kept everyone on a sane plane. Now he was something else and I didn't know where I went wrong or where he faltered.

In my peripheral, I saw Harry stare at us in horror before running off to call someone. I hoped it was the woman she married so she wouldn't have to deal with our father right now. God knows that he should only be angry at one of us.

My father neared me and poked me in the chest, hard. "I don't know _why_ you returned."

"Because it is my home. That's where everyone wants to return to when things get bad," I tried to reason, but he was beyond reason.

"Well, quite frankly, you have no home here. Not anymore anyways."

I was stricken. They were simple words, but they were angry and true words. The words I didn't want to here and the words I never wanted to believe. Family of all people should not tell you these sort of things.

"Excuse me?" I asked numbly and my father smiled snidely at me. He wasn't an idiot. He knew he had me.

"You heard me. You have no home here. Pack your things and get out."

It was at that moment that Harry came back and I was eternally grateful for that for I suddenly lost the fight in me. It just fell to the floor in surprise and shock.

"Father," she stated sharply. "Stop it. You're drunk. You don't mean the things you say right now and you will regret it."

He scoffed. "I mean everything I say."

I couldn't take it anymore. I left. Anger, raw and white flashed through me and I knew that if I didn't leave I would regret it.

Before I was out of earshot, Harry asked me to come back later.

I didn't drink like most should have. I didn't go and cry my sorrows. Instead, I walked aimlessly down the streets of London in my uniform, ignoring the questioning stares and awe-inspiring looks from children. The pack from the military still remained on my shoulder as I trudged on.

Just as she requested, I returned later. If it hadn't been for that request I would have gone off the map perhaps, but I couldn't do that to Harry. She already was watching her family clash and fall apart. It wasn't fair to her.

The night sky shined above my head as I made my way back. It was roughly midnight and I knew my father would be asleep by now if he hadn't been since I left. From where I walked up the porch I could see no lights on except for the light just above the front door.

Before I could knock Harry opened it and hushed me in quickly, shutting the door behind her.

"Father?" I asked.

"He's asleep."

"The liquor finally got to him?"

"You could say that." She smiled ruefully and I briefly examined her for any marks my father could have made in my leaving, just in case. Better be safe than sorry.

Relieved that I found nothing, I dropped my pack next to the coat rack and stretched my muscles. Harry quirked a brow and I swear I heard "old man" uttered under her breath, but I ignored her as she nodded towards the only room with a light dimly on.

The kitchen was a familiar place. The most important memories happened here actually. My mum's cooking to my father joking around with grins I rarely saw anymore. It was a sad, desolate place that used to be so lively. What a shame that it wasn't now.

Harry pulled out two stools along the island. I sat down and she followed suit, sitting across from me.

She looked tired. That was the first thing I noticed. There were bags under her eyes along with darkened shadows and I didn't know if that was from worrying about her family or herself. I suppose time in itself hadn't been good to either of us.

"So what did he mean? Marrying a woman?" I breached lightly, watching as she stiffened for a split second.

Harry sighed to herself, closing her eye briefly as if making a wall. "Clara. She's my wife. We've been having issues but we are trying it out, you know? Father isn't really helping. Especially since he wasn't attracted to the idea in the first place."

I nodded and smiled at her. I mean, she needed reassurance and of course I was going to give it to her. "Well, I'm fine with it. As long as you are happy that's all that matters to me."

She patted my hand softly in thanks before punching me hard in the shoulder.

"Sap."

"Jerk."

We both laughed quietly as old memories with all sorts of nicknames came into mind. Tattling and racing around the house to beat the other. It seemed like it was from a lifetime ago now.

Standing up, Harry grabbed two glasses and poured whiskey, by the looks of it, into them. I scrunched my nose at the alcohol. I was open to most brews, but whiskey was never to my liking.

Harry rose her brow. "What? Is it too strong for Mr. Captain of the Army? I didn't know they trained pansies now."

I winced internally before offering a smile and downing the glass in one go.

When I put the glass down, Harry had this confused look on her face. She caught the wince no doubt. She always caught everything without fail.

"What happened, John? Back there?"

I sighed, listening to the hum from the alcohol entering my system. "Men died on my watch. In a sense, father was right."

"Now John…" She interrupted, but I silenced her firmly.

"He was right, Harry. He was correct. I was at fault for the death of those men. No amount of consolation will change that. I do feel guilty and at fault for that. I feel like I am a cold blooded murderer. Even though I wasn't directly at fault, I feel like it is my fault and that's what everyone is bound to believe anyhow." I pushed the empty glass around and glanced up when Harry refilled it.

I was about to say thanks when I got punched in the shoulder about as hard, if not harder, than last time.

"What was that for?" I complained, rubbing my shoulder.

She huffed at me with a glare. "For sounding like a kicked puppy. Come on now. You know how much I hate being tagged with everyone else. I don't think you did it John and nothing will change that. You were just caught in the crossfire."

_I wish_ I thought quietly, not voicing it in fear of Harry ranting eternally about it.

The silence was tangible as we sat there, sipping our drinks. My two to her one. It was a miserable pint. Something to fray the nerves to relaxing despite the fact that I was far from that goal.

My fingers tapped against the glass as my legs altered from crossing at the ankles to splayed along the seat. I just couldn't remain still no matter how much I wanted to. It was a nice atmosphere to be in and I had no reason to be restless, but I just felt like moving rather than sitting.

When it seemed like I couldn't stop moving or changing positions, I stood and placed my glass in the sink with the other dishes. "I should grab my things before I risk father catching me. I quite frankly don't think I can deal another row with him."

"John," Harry spoke, getting out of her own chair. "Don't worry about it. It was the alcohol I promise. This isn't first time he has been like this and you know it won't be the last. He isn't himself."

I was already aware of that. "Still, I don't want to be around when it wears off. I know the look he'll give me Harry and I don't want to see it." Disappointed. Sad. Mournful. Lost. All the looks he never wanted his father to express.

Harry sighed and followed me to my room. It hadn't changed at all. Everything was still in its place from when I was last here. Some dust collected on the wood end tables and other little souvenirs of sorts. The football I used to kick around was in the corner dejected.

I grabbed a drawstring pack out of the closet and began packing some clothes. I was about to tighten the knot when Harry handed me a phone and a charger.

Raising a brow in her direction, she offered a smile. "If you need me, phone me. I am terrible at texts. I expect at least a call a week from you."

I reflected the grin and nudged her, unsurprised when she did the same only harder. Again, memories of when we were kids often scolded by our mother filled our head.

When we shut the bedroom door, I casted my eyes over the guitar case leaning against the frame just outside the room. It had seen better days. Whether from my father's anger or from misuse the case looked battered and scratched.

"Do you want to take it? Mum would want you to."

I licked my lips and nodded. "Yeah, she would, wouldn't she?" I didn't hesitate to grab it, rubbing off the dust with my hands and throwing the strap over my shoulder as it bounced against my back.

The small walk back to the door felt long and tense. I didn't look at Harry in fear that she would persuade me to stay.

When she opened the door, she finally spoke.

"Did you want to go to a pub? Get a little drunk and all before you leave for God knows where? They'll be on me," she waggled her eyebrows but I shook my head. I wanted drinks, but I won't drink with Harry. If that happens, none of us will be getting home with all that we came with.

"No. No, I'm good. Thanks." I took a step and she already had another response.

"Where will you stay? I mean, you don't have a place. This was your only…"

"I have friends," I lied. "They'll keep me until I'm on my own two feet again."

Harry scrunched up her face at my lie, as if trying to decode it, but eventually it smoothed out into a sigh as she grabbed me into a rough hug.

"Fine. Well, I'll be seeing you around, yeah?"

"Yeah. Definitely."

I left but I could feel the holes burn in my back as Harry waited for me to turn around with a laugh and an "I'm sorry I was joking. Of course I will stay." I wasn't going to turn around. I wasn't going to stay with my father. I just couldn't do that. It was odd saying that I couldn't rely on family, but that is what this whole act was inferring wasn't it?

A few minutes later I realized I forgot the pack I brought back from the Army, but then a second later I decided to forget about it. It was only extra weight and I wasn't going to need it anyways.

My feet didn't get far before I sat on a bench in the quiet streets of London. They ached from the walk and the sudden weight on my shoulders were making each step seem like it should be the last.

The second I sit down, I think of my father's words.

It was my fault. I led them to their fate. It's my fault for not seeing things sooner. The list goes on and on. A vicious circle of crimes I might as well be guilty of. I knew that no matter how many times I tried to keep his words out of my head, the tone and accusing eyes would follow me for the rest of my life. Whatever was left of my life anyways.

I couldn't lie. Those words had ripped holes in me. They had bit off pieces of my compassion and strength with one bite. They weren't painful. The after pain of knowing my father thought this way didn't cause me to feel pain.

No, it was the act itself. The action of his infliction. The fact that he would say such things over trying to rationalize. That's what got to me.

Believing him wasn't too far-fetched for my case here. The jury had given their two-cents and I was a lost cause. Seeing that wasn't too hard to follow.

_But_, a small voice reminded, _Harry said he was drunk._

Well, that may be the case but I have hardly heard a case where drunk men only spoke lies. In fact, Drunkenness doesn't always mean lies. There is some truth in what men of that intoxicated level speak. All the alcohol did was loosen the tongue. He would still believe the same no matter if he was sober or the opposite.

Letting out a sigh, I absently observed it hit the cold air. My hand brushed against the guitar case resting in my lap. It felt heavy and yet light. A paradox of emotions that I didn't know if I wanted to face. Happiness for what it was for, but misery for what it had said farewell to.

Christ. Maybe my father was right. I was a miserable fool. Questioning my life's worth and the objects that got me this far? It was barely past midnight. Everyone was sleeping. Everyone who should be anyhow.

And myself? I was awake, sitting on a creaky bench with a dimming lamp overhead. Anyone who bothered to look out their window would see me and it's not I could do much. I didn't have anywhere to go and I had nowhere to be. No expectations. No occupations.

I was… free in a sense, but I still felt like the miserable cage followed me with the doors wide open.

Tilting my head up, I stared at the stars. It was a clear sky. Every star that bothered to show itself did and they were equally parts beautiful and shocking. They didn't ever have to worry about their past or the end they will inevitably have. They were strong and bright regardless of clouds and stormy atmospheres.

Maybe it was time for me to make a new start. Be like the stars in the sky. I'll always have the guilt on my shoulders. It will always be with me like baggage I am unable to let go of. I can mourn in peace without anyone questioning me. Medically speaking, perhaps this wasn't good. I was a recently dispatched soldier who may or may not be suffering from PTSD.

However, I knew that succumbing to that meant asking Harry for help and I didn't want to bother her more than I already have tonight. I'll figure my way around, learn the ropes to living. It'll be an experience that I will learn from.

Placing my pack next to me, I opened the latches on the guitar case. The guitar was still as good as before. Unlike the case, every scratch or paint scuff mark was able to be accounted for.

I rubbed the paint with my thumb, treasuring the memories of all the frustration I had learning this instrument.

Deep inside, I didn't want to try and find a place. Well, a part of me didn't anyways. I didn't want to ask around or to get another job when my past already haunts me enough to affect anyone I become close to. That part wanted me to keep distant of those that would suspect something odd about me.

After all, distance helped keep away the pain, didn't it? Of course. No interaction means no expectations which in turn implies no empty promises. It was a win-win situation.

The other part, of course, wanted me to try.

I wasn't sure if I even wanted to honestly.

I let out a humorless chuckle, watching as it materialized in the air in front of me only to fall away after only a few seconds.

What did I do when I was like this? There was always something that kept me from falling off the Earth, right?

The second my fingers subconsciously plucked a string on my guitar, I realized that music was the only answer. It was always the answer. It healed me in my mother's passing and disease. It helped Harry and my father prior to my leaving to the Army. It only made sense that it would cure me now.

Before I knew it, my guitar was placed in my hold and I was strumming away. There was barely any sound, just loud enough for me to hear the tune and meld into its amity.

_Break ties_

_But struggle with chains in life_

_You'll always be the puppet wire_

_Stapled to my heart_

_I'm washed out_

_In sorrow and agony_

_It's all the same old story_

_But this will be the time_

_And I don't know why you call_

_When it's all going wrong_

_Oh, and I don't know_

_I'll tell you what you want_

_And I don't know why you call_

_When it's all going wrong_

_Oh, and I don't know_

_I'll tell you what you want_

_Forgive me_

_For all that I have done_

_And all that I will do_

_It's not because of you_

_I'm darker now_

_And darker with each day_

_As both of your faces_

_Start to look the same_

_And I don't know why you call_

_When it's all going wrong_

_Oh, I don't know_

_I'll tell you what you want_

_And I don't know why you call_

_When it's all going wrong_

_Oh, I don't know_

_I'll tell you want you want_

_To hear_

_To hear_

_To hear_

_To hear_

_And I don't know why you call_

_When it's all going wrong_

_Oh, and I don't know_

_I'll tell you what you want_

_And I don't know why you call_

_When it's all going wrong_

_Oh, and I don't know_

_I'll tell you what you really want_

_To hear_

I let out a soft chuckle when I finished the song. Sure, I wasn't in my room with only eavesdropping ears to hear me, but it was nice. Sitting out here with no one but myself and my guitar. Having no one to rely on. Having no one to really return to I suppose.

Placing my guitar back in its case, I closed it and threw it on my back, grabbing my pack next.

There was an alley behind me and while I would never have thought of the idea before, I realized that if I wanted to start new, I would have to go somewhere new. A place that no one would know me or care to understand my story.

The light behind me finally flickered off with a barely audible pop. Years of being in the Army washed away the flinch that any other person would have felt.

Walking around the bench, I stared at the foreboding alley. Doubt flitted briefly in my mind before melting away.

As I meandered my way throughout the alley, I had a single thought resound above the rest.

_Let's see how long I last._


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: Originally I was only going to post the last chapter. The flashback. However, I realized that it seemed rather pointless without another actual plot chapter. _

_So this is the official last chapter. I will have an epilogue because of reasons so don't worry. The epilogue will hopefully be up this weekend if I can swing it._

_Thank you guys for reading this story. It has been a rollercoaster of emotions for the most of us and an experience for myself. I do plan to write another Johnlock soon, but it's going to take a while. I want to finish A Fool's Promise before I take on another fic. (Kind of have 5 more that are not related to this account)._

_So, without further ado, here's John's POV. You didn't think he was really dead, did you? It __**is**__ Sherlock we are talking about you know._

_Read, review, follow, or favorite._

_Keep a lookout for the epilogue coming out. __ Trust me. It'll be a happy chapter with all the angst these two have gone through._

_Ciao~_

* * *

><p>A Detective for a Muse<p>

Chapter 28

**John POV**

My fingers scraped over the scarlet letter Irene had given me a few hours ago. It had already been open, for I had to tell her if I would perform what it asked, but now the edges had little tears from where I kept pulling the tab out and regrettably forced it back in it. Double checking the proposal, triple checking that I wouldn't change my mind.

No matter how many times I would open the envelope to see the proposition, I would always accept. It wasn't rocket science what it asked. Sure, Sherlock would hate me for this, he may even _despise_ me even, but it was worth it.

The stupid idiot. I suppose if we had been more aware of Moriarty earlier, this would have never happened in the first place.

But it's too late now. As it were, I was already of schedule from what Ms. Adler told me.

Easing out the parchment, I felt my eyes roam over the words again before closing with a sigh.

_Inject the tetrodotoxin in your forearm preferably. Symptoms will begin to show ten to half an hour later. The level of the dose is enough for you to enact your death without becoming the status. Proceed with caution. You know what to do after you read this. – Irene Adler_

I threw the letter into the fireplace, a long ancient flame warming the cool flat. Instantly, sparks flew as the paper caught flame. Destroy all evidence. I didn't want Sherlock to find it after I was unable to hide it.

Sighing, I opened my fist and looked at the syringe that rested in its palms. It was a toxin I was well versed in from my medical days. A poison from the pufferfish that affected the nerves and, if taken in abundance, could cause respiratory distress and, soon after, failure. It was a risky poison, but taken in the right doses it could offer a pretense death.

If Irene was correct, the dose was only enough to inflict a slow progression of nerve lethargy. Then respiration distress which will eventually lead to my faux death. As much as I didn't want to, I trusted her not to kill me. She seemed to have everything thought out and ready for my act and I hoped that it was only that – an act.

"_Don't be concerned about your welfare, John,"_ _Irene murmured as she sipped at her wine. "I have a multitude of people who are also in this plan we have concocted, and they will do whatever is necessary for you to survive this."_

"_How do I know your goal is not to kill me?" I asked wryly. I knew the second I said it that it was a pointless question to ask and her answer only placed it on a pedestal._

_Leaning forward, she smiled. "If I planned to kill you, darling, I wouldn't be helping you right now, now would I?"_

That entire conversation seemed far too surreal for my liking. Conversing my demise and Sherlock's reaction like it was the weather when in fact it was the hardest conversation for me to even fathom.

Now I was here to put it into action, preferably before he got home and caught me. If he did, it would be all for naught and no doubt all trust he had in my safety would be lost.

Stupid detective and the lengths that I go for him. It's not like I would _change_ my decision either.

I followed the vein running from my thumb up my forearm and propped the syringe. Taking a deep breath, I plunged the fluid into my arm.

The effects weren't immediate. Of course they weren't. It's one of the reasons why most people died from the poison in the first place; because they didn't know what was happening until it was too late.

I estimated 30 minutes more or less to get prepared despite the time range Irene had given me.

Too little time to tell Sherlock if I were to change my mind and too much time left to myself.

Moving up to the kitchen, I grabbed one of the sharpest knives I could find, testing it on the palm of my hand and letting out a barely audible hiss at the pain. Blood pooled in the crevices, but I didn't grab a rag. It was only going to get worse so what's the point?

I grimaced at the knife before turning away from the kitchen.

My steps were moving without me focusing on them. My mind, my emotions, were on autopilot, barely directing me to the bathroom and forcing my body to start the bath water. It had to be cold to slow down the blood flow in addition to the drug I had administered a few minutes ago. This was not a plan for comfort.

With a thump, my shirt fell off my shoulders. I was going to leave my trousers on, no matter how uncomfortable it may be. Even if I was going to be "dead" in their eyes, I didn't want to appear improper. Well, not exactly improper, but I couldn't think of a better term at the time.

At least it would seemed that I "planned" it more so than rushed it at the spur of the moment.

I eased myself into the frigid water, leaving the faucet on as told. I fully extended, my feet against the wall of the tub and my head barely above the water.

One more step.

Using the knife, I opened every single cut of my past wounds.

The ones along my chest that scarred over from Moriarty's inflictions. Other wounds from the past that I couldn't remember. I made sure they weren't too deep to kill me but not too shallow as to not bleed.

My teeth were clenched from the curses of pain I let out but I didn't falter.

Briefly, absently, I thought back to the dressing room. How I stared at my reflection and the terrible scars and thought I deserved more. I needed to have more scars, more cuts, and more blood loss to make up for all I have done.

Now, I couldn't even fathom why I would do such a thing. It was absurd and concerning and even as I opened all my wounds, I could never force myself to think that way. Not with Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson. Not with my sister or Lestrade.

The blood mingled with the water, changing the color briefly before it spilt over onto the tiled floor. When it seemed that all my wounds were opened, I painfully moved my arm to drop the knife next to the tub.

My arm remained out of the tub, the cut on my palm slithering down to my finger tips and dripping. It took all my self-control to not wipe it and clean my wounds.

With nothing to stare at and everything I didn't want to focus on, I laid my eyes on the ceiling.

What would Sherlock think when he saw me? I hadn't been exactly fair to him this past week. It was mostly in preparation for Irene's dinner as well as not leading him towards suspicion. However, I knew I was giving off worrying signals. All of the symptoms I had given him, accidentally by all means, showed valiant depression.

In a sense, depression had been a part of me. I couldn't necessarily decline that fact. These few past weeks showed that exponentially. I cannot say that I have been getting _better_ exactly, but I could infer that I had grown significantly lighter in luggage. Depression was not one of my major demons now but a small minor character in a play.

But that's not how Sherlock would see it – the brilliant idiot.

When I let out a sigh, that's when I felt the first symptoms.

My lips and tongue were sluggish, becoming paralyzed. Additionally, my extremities were becoming stiff and slow in the current of the running water.

How much time had passed? Ten minutes? Twenty? I supposed it didn't matter. There was no way for me to determine how much time passed and it would be useless until I was done with the plan. If I worried about an ETA, I wouldn't be focused on succeeding.

Besides, I knew all the other symptoms were to soon follow suit. Time and symptom went hand in hand at the moment.

So I closed my eyes which left me to myself and my thoughts with no outside influence besides the running water and dripping blood to remind me I wasn't sleeping or slipping into a dreamless coma.

A part of the reason I did this was so I wouldn't see Sherlock. I didn't want to face him, to watch him fall apart or change in my presence. I was an open book. One look in my eyes and he would know I was fibbing and I couldn't do that to him. It would ruin the plan and it just wasn't right to begin with.

But then again none of this could be called _right _to begin with.

"_It's going to be hard, I will admit, John. I know of the relationship you hold with the detective and this will truly test the limits of said bond." She sighed and pushed her glass away. "With that said, you must know the importance at which this plan must succeed."_

_I remained quiet. It wasn't a thoughtful silence but an understandable agreement sort of quiet. _

"_I… get that you don't want to leave him like he will be after your death, but Sherlock must live. It is a must in this goal and you are the only one that can perform the plan we have in mind." She watched me expectantly and I folded the piece of paper in my hands, sticking it back into the scarlet letter._

"_Yes. I know. I will do it. For Sherlock and only for Sherlock." I leveled a tired glare at the woman across from me. "I am not doing it for you or for any other twisted parties in this plan. I am, and always have been, doing this for Sherlock."_

_She smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way."_

"_I'm going to save him," I thought to myself, closing my eyes._

I soon realized that even if I wanted to open my eyes, I wasn't going to be able to. My entire face was numb. I could no longer feel the lap of cold water against the skin as vividly as before. My extremities were immobile. It was fine. It's not like I planned on moving them anyhow.

If I had been suddenly dosed by this under my knowledge, I would be thrashing and trying to alert Sherlock. I would not have relaxed calmly in this bathtub like it was my grave prepared by fate.

Goodness I was focused on a lot of what-ifs. What if Irene was wrong? What if Sherlock wasn't fooled? What if Sherlock was doing this in my place? Would I tell the difference?

_Would he do the same?_

A headache began to bloom behind my eyes. It was painful and pulsed alongside my heart rate. My breathing was becoming harder to keep going and went from involuntary to voluntary fairly quickly. I wasn't panicked. I wasn't scared. I knew this was going to happen. Irene didn't necessarily sugar coat the details of this poison.

"_I warn you. You will feel multiple possible symptoms with this toxin. The most prominent are hyper salvation, sweating, headache, weakness, lethargy, incoordination, tremors, paralysis, cyanosis, aphonia, dysphagia… really the list goes on. The most common symptoms are difficulty breathing, paralysis, and a headache." She grimaced, a look that looked incredibly out of place on her placid face._

This was only the beginning of the respiratory distress I would be under. I could barely move my mouth at all, my lips barely parted enough for my attempts at breathing.

Out of curiosity, odd in a moment like this, I tried to groan. Not a sound was heard. I couldn't squeeze it through my throat and the effort was making me exhausted. It was like each sound I tried to make only constricted my vocal chords into not moving.

The burn of not breathing properly and efficiently began to grow and blossom in the companionable alliance of the headache. Both were unpleasant and incredibly uncomfortable, but I wouldn't be able to do anything about it. Too little too late as they say.

A minute later and I realized that my vitals, if my personal introspection was anything to go by, were low enough to register death by any quick prodding hands.

I knew I wasn't. It was obvious. Oh God that sounded too much like Sherlock.

If I could make a sound, I would have chuckled at the thought of the pesky detective and his scoffs of anything being "obvious". He had changed me so much the bloody git. I didn't see things completely in his eyes, but I could definitely tell more than I did when he first picked me up. A lot of bad habits were picked up because of him but it was just as much my fault as his for attracting them in the first place.

It didn't matter. If I had been dead, I wouldn't be here pondering over when Sherlock was going to arrive and thus the real test would begin.

Eventually, I did hear a gasp, but it wasn't from who I thought it would be from.

"Oh, Johnny boy. Look at you. You beat me to it. You beat me at my own game," a small laugh escaped the criminals face and I imagined him looking surprised and in awe. "Well, I guess this makes this quicker, hm?"

The splash accompanying each step were the only indications of where Moriarty was and when he stopped in front of me, I knew I would have stiffened if I already wasn't so.

"Odd. I would have never seen it coming. Your strength is admirable, John. Sherlock is correct about that anyways. I suppose you surprise me still, even in death." Another giggle of brief amusement and then I heard the sound of metal being slid out of a sleeve or pocket.

I knew it was a knife before Moriarty sliced a few marks of his own on my hanging arm. Silently, I hoped that it wouldn't kill me or add up to the tension.

A familiar snap of latex gloves was heard before Moriarty dabbed a finger into the dripping blood on my skin. I wanted to recoil in disgust at what he was doing, but I couldn't do anything but focus on his brief touches and faint humming.

I wasn't surprised in the visit from the consulting criminal. It was another premonition from Miss Adler.

"_The whole point of this plan is that we know for a fact Moriarty is going to try to kill you himself, or make you commit suicide so traumatic that Sherlock will be left reckless and vulnerable."_

"_So if we beat him to the punch," I began._

"_He would have nothing left to do but sign his work. It would make your detective angry and more than a little vengeful, but he won't be as immature as if you were to die right in front of him." She nodded at the letter._

_I sighed. "How long have you planned this? It seems rather intricate."_

"_Oh, wouldn't you like to know," Irene responded vaguely._

"I'm a little disappointed. I wanted to be the reason he faltered, but you had to have the last laugh. If you hadn't gone loyal and honor, I would have adored having you on my side, John. You and Sebby."

Humming, Moriarty finished whatever he did and backed away judging by the steps becoming further and the splashes quieter.

"There."

A brief pause filled the silence before the consulting criminal spoke to himself.

"Sherlock should be here soon." I could hear him step out of the room, but before he got far he leaned into the bathroom once more. "If it is something of consolation and comfort to your… drowning corpse, Sherlock should be following you soon after."

The silence returned when he left. I wanted someone to break the silence. I didn't like it. I had my thoughts, but I didn't want to be left alone to my thoughts for long. It was never good for anyone.

And I wished that it stayed the second that I heard Sherlock yelling my name throughout the flat.

"John?" _Christ_ I would have cringed if I was able to. There was panic. In his voice was pure panic mixed in with borderline concern.

The doors of the flat opened and closed as he checked all the rooms. All of them but one.

When Sherlock finally stopped in front of the bathroom, I noticed that it took him a long time to open the door, as if he was preparing himself. God I hoped he was preparing himself and not hiding his emotions. Knowing him he would do just that.

All annoyances of the detective flew out the window as I heard the door hit the wall. I knew Sherlock saw me. Saw what I had done to myself. Saw whatever Moriarty did above me.

I heard the steps and expected Sherlock to turn off the faucet.

But much to my surprise and utter sadness, Sherlock picked me up out of the tub and held me close to him. I felt the warmth under his skin reach out to me. He couldn't tell. He couldn't see, but I was in pain having to go through this. It was painful and horrible, but I couldn't do anything to stop it, not that I would.

Cool, barely shaking fingers reached up to my neck to check for my pulse. I imagined that he didn't find one considering he immediately went for respirations next. After a minute of no response, I heard the familiar patter I would know anywhere and my heart jumped to my throat.

"What… what…" Oh dear Mrs. Hudson. I never wanted to do this to her. She was the best land lady either of us had ever had and this would no doubt traumatize her.

"He was murdered." I emotionally flinched at the tone in Sherlock's voice. There was no sorrow in his voice, no tone of mourning or regret. There was _nothing_ in that voice that rumbled through.

"Sherlock?"

There was a long pause as Sherlock thought over his answer or did whatever it was he was doing. It was thinking but I didn't know what.

Mrs. Hudson eventually spoke again. "Is he?"

Sherlock was calling someone. I heard the familiar dial tone from where I was, but before the recipient answered, Sherlock sighed.

"Yes. John Watson – captain, doctor, blogger, and friend – is dead."

When I heard those words, that particular sentence, that's when I realized that had I not taken the toxin, I would have not been able to go through it. I would have immediately pushed aside the mission to tell him, hint at him, that I was not dead.

Because I wasn't dead, but as far as Sherlock was concerned I was.

Almost as if my "death" were a switch, I felt the change in Sherlock. He was becoming more distant, a lot more like the man who I met on the sidewalk.

Had my throat not been numb already, it would have constricted at the change.

Sherlock called Lestrade and Molly from what I heard, explaining what had happened to me. Listening to how he portrayed my death and his unwillingness to accept anything but murder strangled my determination.

I was kept in Sherlock's arms until the Yard arrived in which other hands zipped my body into a body bag. Before I was fully covered, I heard the gasp from Lestrade along with a soft swear.

I wondered if this was actually the right things to do. A brief lapse in judgement. Irene warned me of this and at the time I laughed because why would I hesitate when I knew it would keep Sherlock alive? Now that I thought of it, if he was… changing, I preferred that compared to being six feet under.

My body was carried with surprising care. I didn't know why until I heard Lestrade bark, "He's a bloody friend. You better _not_ toss him in the bag like meat."

As the bag was zipped and I was once again lifted with multiple hands, I could do nothing but listen to my surroundings. I heard a lot of murmurs, a lot more unsaid than spoken.

"Poor bloke," Anderson bit and I imagined him shaking his head.

"That's what he gets for listening to the freak rather than us," Donovan replied with as much sarcasm although her voice expressed pity as well, a shocker for all those listening I thought.

The ride up to the morgue was a long one. I couldn't do anything and my breathing was faint. I knew the long term effects of this toxin as well as the fact that there was no absolute cure. Most of the treatment for this sort of thing went with hoping that it washed out of my system. With how peculiar and accurate the measurement was, Irene probably thought that through.

Or so I hoped anyhow.

"_The toxin is incurable. I know that you are aware of this," the woman spoke, drinks now gone from the table and scarlet letter in my pocket. "But you will not die from this. I can promise this to you at the least."_

"_You said not to trust you," I reminded._

_She shrugged. "I have and yet I know that you do nevertheless. You are a very trustworthy person." She tapped a delicate fingernail against her cheek as if in thought._

_I laughed humorlessly. Trustworthy? Please. I just develop close bonds with people once they worm themselves into my heart. "It's easy to see where that got me, eh?"_

_With a sharp look, Irene placed her other hand on top of mine which tapped with an arrhythmical beat on the table. "Your past is a mess, for lack of better terminology, however that rarely seems to stop you. I am not your enemy. That does not require trust, but belief and I know you are ready to believe anything when it comes to the safety of Sherlock Holmes."_

The unzipping of my body bag is what eventually pulled me out of my reverie. Flighty fingers lifted and eased my body down onto the cold autopsy table and then the door shut behind whomever left me here.

With a sigh, I felt someone's careful fingers prod my eyes open and I was staring at Molly. She was smiling but it was off. It wasn't as if she was mourning my loss at all.

"I know, John. I was aware of this the second you agreed to it if you would believe. I… It's going to be a while before it flushes out of your system. My calculations are rarely wrong or fatal I promise you." She took a deep breath and exchanged an apologetic smile. "You may lose consciousness or go into cardiac and/or respiratory arrest, but you will survive."

Quieter, almost to the point that I couldn't hear her, I caught a "You have to."

At that moment someone slammed open the door and the next second my eyes were closed once more to the world. I could only think of one person who would barge in unannounced.

I tried to listen into the plan Sherlock relayed to Molly, but I couldn't hear a damn thing. He was speaking too fast and too softly for me to catch and put together. All I knew was that he was going after Moriarty, like Irene had planned, but I didn't know what he planned to do. If he was coming to Molly there must be a significant reason.

Medical skills? First aid? Back up?

Had I not been "dead" I would have protested any bloody plan the detective spoke or proposed. He was an idiot and irrational. Those two characteristics do not go well together.

I just had a feeling that this wasn't going to end well, but so far it wasn't starting well either.

When Sherlock finally left, Molly was by my side. I can hear her trying to relay what Sherlock had planned, but for some reason I couldn't _breathe_ correctly.

I don't how she knew, but Molly was instantly ready, trying to coax me into calming down but all I knew was that Sherlock was going to do something stupid and I was not going to be there to save him. I wasn't going to be able to help him. He was already reckless without me!

Before I knew it, unconsciousness engulfed me with bittersweet panic and cries for my name.

The familiar and unwanted burn of antiseptic burned in my nose as I breathed. It was a horrid smell that guaranteed a clean environment and a temporary confinement all in one.

Scrunching my nose, I tried to take shallow breaths to ease the smell. Of course it didn't help, but the fact that I was able to move was something that distracted me from that fact.

I twitched a few of my fingers and gave a soft sigh at finally being able to move them willingly. It seemed the toxin finally wore off without much damage. Molly was correct with her measurements as she assured me before.

Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes slowly and in increments until my eyes were used to the light. It took forever. Each ray pierced my vision like a knife and I would have to close them before slowly trying again. It was painful to put it lightly, but I refused to remain in the dark.

Minutes, hours, I don't know how much time later, I was able to look around me.

It was definitely one of the nicer hospital wards I have been in. It looked a lot more home like and less like a half-attempted cage. I was about to observe the rest when somebody clearing their throat alerted me.

And as fate had it, the first person I saw was Mycroft, Sherlock's brother. He was sitting there, staring at me thoughtfully. I would be lying if I said that I didn't grimace in his presence.

Beside him was Molly who seemed to be fidgeting in her seat. When I finally smiled at her, she let out a sigh of relief and stood. She looked like she hadn't slept a wink if the dark shadows under her eyes and the twitching motions her fingers and motions said anything. She was a nervous wreck that deserved a long break after all this nonsense. More than a break really.

"Hey. How are you feeling?" She asked timidly.

"Great," I spoke, even though I felt like I had been hit by a car. My joints were not willing to move immediately and every part of my torso, especially when I breathed, ached painfully. My fingers and toes allowed movement, but that was the stretch for the moment. "A little parched I guess, but that's expected, yeah?"

She brought a straw to my lips and I sucked it down eagerly. When I was finished she put the cup down and opened her mouth again.

"We managed to get the toxin out of you. We… I was very scared for a moment, John. There was a moment where you flat lined for ten seconds. I thought I would die with you." She took a deep breath and then smiled. "But you're fine. Now anyways. You are going to have to stay here for a while to get used to your nerves and joints though. The toxin is going to require a bit of therapy to overcome."

I laughed. "Well, it's not like I have anywhere else to go, hm?"

Molly's shaky smile fell into a sad frown and I cursed myself. Of all things to bring up it had to be Sherlock.

"You did a perfect job, John."

I flicked my gaze over to the window where Irene stood elegantly.

"Is Sherlock…?"

"He's fine," she assured with a smirk. "I'll have you know that he is actually very okay. He's alive and well. In fact, he defeated Moriarty."

I gasped. He defeated him? Beat him at his own game?

I tried to form words but they kept failing me. I didn't know what to say or what to do in reply to that statement.

"How?" I asked breathlessly.

Irene pulled out a phone – my phone I realized after a second although now it had a large indention in the center of it. "Your phone managed to dodge a bullet. Apparently, you were able to save him without being there." She winked at me with a proud grin.

I stared at the phone for what felt like forever. It caught the bullet? What were the odds of that?

At last, my lips began to move. "Can I see him?"

This time it was Mycroft who shook his head.

"I'm afraid not. As far as my brother knows, you are dead. He is mourning, Dr. Watson, and will not take your resurfacing with a good grace, if you will."

Pausing, I rephrased my words in my head before trying again. "Can I _ever_ see him again?"

Mycroft smiled genuinely at this and I almost did a double take. "In time."

A retort was on the tip of my tongue when a knock at the door interrupted me.

Molly checked it and exchanged a few words before nodding to Irene and Mycroft. As a group, they exited and the door shut behind them. After a few minutes, it opened again to a woman I half expected to ever see again in this lifetime.

Harry, tearful, red, and angry stood there with her arms crossed over her chest like the stubborn older sister she always was.

When she walked up, I expected the strong punch to my shoulder. It was her trademark "I hate you but I love you" assault. I winced as pain flared at the unused nerves but smiled nonetheless.

"You are a fucking idiot!" she began sternly. "How could you? Living on the streets? Getting sick and hurt? And you never thought to phone me? What were you thinking?"

The smile on my lips felt weighted so much it hurt. "I didn't want to bother you. You had our father to deal with anyways."

There was a pause and I heard the other foot drop.

"Harry?"

She chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah, about that."

I awaited her answer. "He… he passed away. Well, I think he passed away."

"You think? What happened?"

The smile on her lips was wry with amusement. "I don't know. I don't. One evening I was at the house, taking some air to calm the fight I had with Clara, and he left, grumbling about pints and drowning out the failures of his family." She shrugged but I could see the pain. "He never returned, John. I don't know if he left, but I want to assume the worst, as bad as that sounds."

I nodded and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Well, if that sounds bad, then it must sound worse if I say good riddance." Glancing at her, I added quickly after. "I love him, Harry. I do. He is our father, but I these last few years it's obvious that he has not been what he was supposed to be."

Exhaling, I plaster another smile. "So how are you and Clara now?"

Harry laughed and I could see her blush happily. "Good. We are good. Have a little one now, you know. Adopted, but we love her nonetheless. She would love to meet her Uncle John."

"Uncle John? Really, Harry?"

Smirking, she punched my shoulder lightly. "Shut up. You know you secretly love it. Anyways, Molly told me you might need a place to stay after this since you can't go… back to him."

I sighed. "Yeah."

She immediately rebounded. "Well, stay with us! Until you're able to get your bearings." Smiling, she added, "I was talking to the nurses of this hospital and they are more than willing to take you in. Apparently, they have heard of you from military men who come here so you have quite the high reputation if I do say so myself."

The laugh that shook me felt nice despite the pain in my lungs. "Maybe."

I wanted more than anything to stay with Harry, but I kept thinking of Sherlock. How he was grieving over my death. How I am unable to actually help with any of that. How lonely he is or how reverted he may return to. It pained me to not be able to tell him directly that I was okay.

In all actuality, I wanted to say hello but I couldn't.

Seeing Sherlock now would not be good for either of us. He would be angry and unable to deal with the situation and I am emotionally unstable. The separation would give me time to heal fully after my rendezvous with the detective so when I do see him again I won't be as damaged a captain and blogger as before.

It was for the good of both of us if I avoided him for a while.

"Actually," I started and Harry perked up. "Yeah. Okay. Sounds great, Harry. When can I move in?"

**-Flash forward a few weeks-**

I don't know what actually spurred me to do it, but one morning I decided that I wanted to go visit my grave. Maybe I needed to get away from my new life for a while. Maybe, in some weird poetic way, I wanted to remember the past self that I buried in my fake death. Whatever it was, it led me to the gravestone that I stood in front of now.

The name was etched in emptily but crisp and pristine. From where I stood, I could see where my mother's grave was not too far off. Had I been dead, that would have been reassuring in my case, wouldn't it?

Laughing quietly to myself, I glanced up at the tree over my head. The branches leaned towards me eagerly like the dream I had back then.

That was such a long time ago, wasn't it? The dream, not my past. It seems like a whole other life altogether in all actuality.

Chasing criminals and avoiding emotional downfalls. Crushing over a bloody detective while playing the part of his loyal blogger willing to do anything for him.

I briefly pondered what type of cases he has had in my leaving. Were they interesting? Did he even take them? I haven't heard much in the papers but you never know. He never did like the popularity. Didn't care for having his name stated or not.

It was the satisfaction of the case that drove him.

Staring thoughtfully at the few frail leaves falling from the branches, I wondered if he thought the case with my "death" as a failure or a success. He defeated a consulting criminal that no one has been able to beat at his own game, but he lost the companionship of his blogger. It was bittersweet, a win-lose situation.

Sighing, I was about to reflect a bit more when I heard footsteps. It only took me an instant to hide behind the tree closest to my grave.

When I peered around the corner and saw Lestrade, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson, a part of me ached to go over to them and smile. The three closest people of my past that didn't know of my endeavors to keep one very important person safe.

Would they call me an idiot? Would they hate me for it? I wouldn't think so. They both loved Sherlock as much as I did, except with different forms of affection obviously.

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade stared quietly and did their mourning before leaving Sherlock behind.

I was confused what Sherlock was waiting for when he opened his mouth and spoke.

And when he spoke I listened to every damn word with conflicting emotions.

I wanted to hug him, to punch him, or to kiss his smirking lips until they were raw. Over it all, I just wanted to see him and I wanted to reassure him.

But I couldn't.

Not yet.

Sitting under the tree, I waited for Sherlock to leave before cupping my face in my hands and sighing shakily.

Not yet.


	29. Chapter 29

_A/N: Guys. I cannot write kissing scenes. I can't. I have only known the basics from seeing it on TV and reading fanfiction. I'm going to be 18 in a few months and have not even kissed anyone besides those childhood bedtime kisses for my parents. I'm just putting this out there because there is a kissing scene and it's going to be all messed up with my naïve mind writing it._

_I mean, I literally put in parenthesis when I wrote it out "(Work on this later because ew kissing scenes)." Pretty telling I'd say. I can't write it so if you guys want to, skip it._

_With that said, I would like to thank every single one of you lovely readers for reading this terrible fanfiction. It has been a journey to write and a journey to see it flourish. I wasn't aiming for popularity at all, but the sight that a few people enjoyed it definitely spurred me forward. I mean, I made friends through this story and still have a few despite my antisocial tendencies to distance myself immediately before I get hurt or hurt them._

_This will be the final chapter. As soon as you are reading this, you will see that it is completed. I have another story I want to add, but I want to finish another story if I can. _

_I'm a mixture of excited and sad that this story is finished. Honestly, this epilogue was the hardest thing for me to write. Partially because of the kissing scene that I have no idea what I was doing, but mostly because of the finality settling in. _

_My first Johnlock ending._

_Well, thank you for joining me on this ride and have a lovely afternoon/evening/morning/or night. _

_Review/read/or favorite. Seeing as this is the final chapter, I guess following this story would be a little pointless, huh?_

_Ciao, darlings._

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><p>A Detective for a Muse<p>

Chapter 29 – Epilogue

**Sherlock POV**

The bleached white tiles of the hospital met my eyes as well as the bland, tasteless walls. A few people resided in the chairs decorating the wall as they waited for whomever they cared for or for treatment for themselves.

I, however, was here for neither.

I was here strictly on a case. A rather tedious banter to be honest. A man and his son went to the lake, the son with a gun, and only the son came back with the father dead behind him. The son claimed to not have killed him, saying the murderer shot him as well, but with no evidence pointing to another individual being at the crime, the Yard was more than ready to claim the son as their culprit.

Rash fools who always went for the easiest prey.

That's why I was here at the hospital. Because of the wounds the son had achieved, I couldn't interrogate him at his home. In fact, he was the one who called for my help, however, the only way I was going to be able to speak to him was to appear here. I was hoping for answers more so than blubbering pleas of saving his name. Clearly if you complain to me about how life isn't fair it isn't going to get any better, is it?

After visiting the survivor, I planned to visit the estate at which he lived with his father's comrade and the daughter of said comrade for further questioning. If all went well, I will have all my information by noon and the case closed by evening.

Walking straight up to the desk, I waited impatiently as the clerk typed away with a bored expression on her face. It was only when I cleared my throat that she looked up.

I saw her gaze go up and down my form and wanted to scoff at her young naivety. Please. I could care less about sexual motivations. She'd have no luck in her advancements.

She straightened herself in her seat, changing her voice to sound soothing as she addressed me. "How can I help you, sir?"

She really was dense, wasn't she?

Shaking my head, I gave the name of the man with no added flirtations, much to her dismay. With a clipped reply with the room number, I turned and went on my way to find the room.

The cases recently had been rather dull. Lestrade has been trying to toss any case that he gets at me in hopes that I will move from this "mourning" stage I apparently have found myself in. My mood has been more irritable and less companionable in his opinion although if he would cease sending me quick, five-minute to solve cases then perhaps I would be in a better mood. Quick playthings like those only mock my curiosity not satiate it.

This case was not of his division, but with his added intimidation I managed to get myself to visit this survivor without too much trouble. It wasn't nearly enough to repay all those small cases, but it was a start.

I had yet to visit the actual crime scene, seeing as how the man who asked for my help was closer than the three-hour ride on the tube.

As expected, the room was guarded with two Yard men. As if a man who was shot in the leg could actually escape. Showing Lestrade's badge, I watched as they nodded before walking in, stuffing the thing back in my pocket for future use.

The male that was fixated on some show on the telly blinked as he saw me enter. It only took a moment before he recognized who I was. In the midst of what occurred to John and the sudden burst of fame I regrettably achieved, anyone could recognize me. This both made getting cases easier and difficult to the point I wished it never happened.

I pushed the thoughts away as the center focus of "a case" entered the forefront. That's all that mattered at this current moment, after all: my work.

Dragging the chair close to the gurney, I sat down and leaned onto my praying fingers.

"So, Mr. McCarthy," I began. "Why have you summoned me to help you on this case? It seems rather clear to the Yard that you have been the one who murdered your father." It was a jibe. Desperation allowed the tongue to loosen in hopes to prove me wrong.

"James," he corrected before looking me directly in the eye. "And I didn't kill my father. I didn't!"

"Two witnesses testified that they say you follow your father into the woods carrying a gun. Additionally, you have been seen arguing with your father at the spot of the crime and even raised your hand. Not ten minutes later you rush to the Moran's house to cry for help." I listed all the facts in order and watched as the young McCarthy's face fell at the evidence against him.

"You don't understand," he protested. "I went into the woods to hunt, not to follow my father. That's all. It was only when I heard my father call "Cooee" that I actually found my father. I will admit that we did argue, that much did happen, but I didn't kill him. When it seemed like we were getting nowhere, I was going to head back to the Hatherley Farm. On the way back I heard my father cry out and returned to find him…" his voice faltered before he cleared his throat. "He wasn't dead yet. I tried to save him but before I could do anything he died in my arms."

Mentally putting all this information away, I pressured further. "And what was it that the both of you argued about that caused such a dispute?"

"Nothing of importance," James replied quickly. "Oh, but if this is important, the last words I heard my father say was something about "a rat", but I don't really know the meaning. There was also a cloak, I swear I saw one, but I didn't bother grabbing it in my race to ask for help for my father."

While a little annoyed with his keeping information regarding the argument secret, I mulled over the other pieces of information and quickly put them aside for further investigation.

I was about to question further when a knock at the door interrupted my next question.

The clipped shoes tapped against the floor, but I didn't turn around to glare at the intruding presence as I wished to.

"Could you please come back in half an hour? At the current time I'm in greater need of your patient compared to your bothersome rambling of health."

Behind me, I heard the doctor still before quickly retreating out the room. Well, I didn't mean to scare him away, but if that got rid of him then so be it. I had a case to worry about, not the morals and ethics I seem to lack.

When I looked back at the patient, he was giving me an odd look.

"What is it?" I asked, annoyed that I seemed to have missed something.

"The doctor," he started slowly. "Looked as if he had seen a ghost. I swear he dropped ten shades and looked ready to faint on his feet. He was terrified, Mr. Holmes."

Frightened? Now there was a clue. While I'm sure the doctor means nothing in my case, the fact that he was quite morbidly afraid intrigued me.

"What did he look like?"

James pursed his lips in thought. "Sandy hair I guess? Maybe dirty blond? Brown eyes. He was kind of short and had a limp."

Everything fell into place and I froze just like that. My emotions and vessel seemed to pause in function, sputter as it tried to come to some rational understanding. It had hopes, suspicions, which I didn't want to believe. There was no way for it to be possible.

However, it wasn't exactly _impossible_.

"What's his name?" I asked breathless.

"What?" he exclaimed with a look of concern.

"His name!" I seethed and the patient blinked.

"I don't know? Something with a W in it. Waters? Whitman?"

"Watson?" I supplied and he snapped his fingers with a smile.

"Yeah! That's it! Watson. Nice enough fellow. Better doctor than most around here."

This couldn't be a coincidence. The odds of a short man with blonde hair and all of the accompanying features of John being named the same name was slim to none. There was only one acceptable reason and I was almost doubtful to believe it.

Almost.

With as little a farewell, and a slimmer promise of returning, I ran from the room. I went through each and every corridor, pausing in front of certain patient's rooms when I thought I heard his voice. I searched everywhere and yet it was like he disappeared from the face of the Earth again. If it hadn't been for the patient saying he saw him, I would have believed John to be a ghost.

Inside, my thoughts were in turmoil.

John. John Watson. He was alive. How? When?

Then a betraying thought entered my thoughts. Why didn't he came to see me? Did he blame me? What could have been so important as to keep away from me for two whole years?

I cursed mentally and almost ran into a nurse with my blind searching.

"Are you okay? May I help you?" she asked with worry in her eyes. I must have looked crazed in her opinion, racing through hallways in search of a man who may or may not be living.

"Do you know where Dr. Watson is? It's important that I see him right now."

She shook her head. "He left just now actually. He was rather quick about it. I remember him saying it was a family emergency. Did you want me to set an appointment for when he gets back? I'll just need a name and…"

"So you have an address?"

She leveled a glare at me. Her worry changed to suspicion and I wanted to groan at the sudden wall I was hitting. Of course there would be people here as protective as him as I was.

"I'm not allowed to give it to you," she stated slowly like I was a child she was trying to explain science to.

"And why is that?" I challenged, absolutely annoyed and frustrated at the same time with this determined woman.

"Because," she began. "You are not related to him. The only person on his records are his sister and her wife, not you, sir, as far as I know. I'm not going to reveal confidential information to a stranger." She huffed at the end as if putting our argument to a close.

"I am related to him," I said before I could think things through.

"Oh really?" she countered with a thin smile. "And how is that, dear? As far as I know, tall, dark, and pale don't run in his family."

"I'm…" I grasped at straws, finding something that wouldn't need to be checked or couldn't be checked. "I'm his fiancé. I have been trying to contact him for his sister, but I haven't been able to reach him. It's important that I do. Please."

The nurse narrowed her eyes at me in which I stared back with no hints of the lie I just told.

After a minute she sighed and motioned for me to follow her to the closest laptop.

Writing the address on a piece of paper, she handed it to me with a look that said "I will be asking John this later". Hopefully I will have found him by then so I could figure out where he had been in the last two years.

The cab ride was quick only because I told the driver I'd pay him double if he took any routes to get me there the quickest.

All but tossing the money in his general direction, I exited the cab and took a deep breath before observing the area I was in.

The house the cab stopped in front of was unfamiliar. It was a two story home in a neighborhood with homes that looked exactly the same. This must be Harry's home. John would have gone to her no doubt if he couldn't return home.

Knocking on the door, I waited as I heard footsteps and a child's laughter get closer.

When the door opened, it only took one look to see that the woman in front of me was Harry. It was all in the eyes and the way their faces were similar when determined or stubborn. A family trait. Another burst of giggles broke our stares as Harry adjusted the small child hanging on her hip. Her biological daughter? No. Adopted. Not nearly the same in facial features.

Harry seemed to know me as well from the looks of it. Good. That made introductions easier.

"Where is John Watson?"

Instantly, anger flared as she handed her daughter to another, shorter, blonde woman. Her hands were in fists by her side and tears in the corner of her eyes. Perhaps I had been wrong in my accusation? No, that had been John and this was the address.

"Where?" she repeated in a shrill pitch. "Six feet under! He is dead. Why are you here? To prod in my wounds? To put my entire family in mourning _again_? Is this some sick joke to you, Sherlock?"

I rolled my eyes at the knives that missed me. "He has to be here. The nurse told me so and you are his sister. You would be the first person he would go to."

"As an emergency contact," Harry clarified. "He isn't here. He hasn't been since I saw him last at my father's house years ago."

Flicking an annoyed glare at her, I took a step forward and watched her do the same. Definitely a Watson trait.

"I really don't have to time to…" I began but Harry interrupted me.

"Listen here, buddy," she growled.

It was quickly going to go downhill from there if someone didn't stop us. We were both equally stubborn people about the same person. Her acting was very good, but I knew that John was here. He had to be. I didn't care how much I had to withstand this woman's anger, I _would_ find him.

"Harry."

A pause hung in the air and then Harry sighed and wiped the false tears from her eyes. Rotating her body, she revealed John.

And it was John. Army captain, doctor, guitarist, friend. John. It was him in the flesh. He looked the same if not healthier since the last time I saw him. His fingers were messing with the edges of his hospital scrubs as he nervously met my gaze. "Clara came and got me. It's… fine."

"John," Harry began but he shook his head.

"No, Harry. It's fine. I called him and he said it was inevitable for Sherlock to remain in the dark for too much longer anyways," John offered me a smile that was equal parts nervous and relieved. "You always could never be kept from information you pleased to have."

"Why…" I began but John shook his head as if to say '_not yet'_.

Harry moved to the side begrudgingly, staring at me with a skeptic eye. I suppose Mycroft isn't the only older sibling protective of the younger. All the anger and frustration I felt in her direction dissolved when John spoke. I didn't have the need to fight her no longer anyways.

Placing his hand on the bannister, John began to ascend the stair case. "Come on Sherlock. Let's go to my room. That would be best to give you the answers you want."

I followed him silently, not sure what I felt. Emotions weren't my strong suit and with John's supposed death, anything his presence built fell away soon after. I wasn't sure if what I felt was anger, happiness, betrayal, or relief. There were no clear-cut decisions as to describe my clarity.

When I entered the room closest to the stairs, John closed the door behind me.

For a minute, none of us spoke. Silence reigned around us with John unsure what to say and I awaiting his answer.

Eventually, John sighed and leaned against the wall behind him, crossing his arms. "Look, Sherlock. I know you are angry…"

"Angry? You died, John. You were dead. I checked your pulse and respirations. As far as vitals went, you were deceased before I even found you."

John laughed. "Yeah, about that. It was a ruse."

"A ruse," I deadpanned and he nodded.

"To keep you alive," John began and I scoffed. At this he sent a scathing glare in my direction as if he was severely offended by my response. "No, Sherlock. Listen to me. That is the bloody truth and if you don't accept it then you are stupider than you thought you were. I was told that if I didn't do what I did, that you would be killed because of your attachment to me."

He took a shaky breath and his glare weakened. "I didn't want you to die, Sherlock. I didn't want you to go six feet under and not come back. I'm not sorry for that I did. I would do it again in a heartbeat if given the chance."

Anger bubbled inside me. I was angry at being deceived. Angry that he didn't come to find me. Angry that he waited two years and even then _I_ had to find _him_. Anger was a part of me, but so was relief, as much as I hated to feel it, because John was alive.

I didn't know what compelled me to do so, but reaching out towards John, I grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and pulled him close. John's hands landed on my waist as one of my hands went up to his head and the other snaked around his waist. I could feel John shuddering against me and I let out a sigh of my own.

"You were gone. For two bloody years."

"I know."

"Why didn't you come to see me?"

"I was told to wait." I let out a laugh at this response but it hurt to do so. Not physically, but the burn that he couldn't see me because he was following idiotic orders emotionally did.

The hands around my hips tightened as John rested his forehead against my chest.

"I'm sorry," he spoke after a moment of silence.

A grimace crossed my features at the apology. "Sorry? I don't think sorry will work this time, John. You are two years late for that."

John backed up after I said that and I let my arms fall. I wished he didn't pull away now that he had, but with the numbness of the situation, I didn't have the audacity to protest such.

The doctor licked his lips and looked everywhere but at me. Judging by his closed face and retreating form, I could tell John was saddened by what I said.

"I'm not sorry I had to do that I did, Sherlock. I'm sorry that I ruined you and ruined what we had. That's what I am sorry for."

I was stunned at what he said. What we had? What exactly _did_ we have? A supposed friendship I hoped. A potential romance perhaps. He didn't ruin them though. He had no part in ruining the status. He… It was ultimately my fault and the case that ruined the both of us and whatever we had, not him and his actions no matter how much they infuriated me so.

John, taking my silence in the wrong way, was about to turn away. Probably to get his bearings. To tell me that he was sorry yet again.

But I was through with his apologies.

Grasping at John's arm, I pulled him towards me and met his lips eagerly. I felt him gasp at the impact and we both winced as my impromptu kiss clashed our noses, but after a few clips with the teeth and a tilt from John's head, I felt his arms wrap around my shoulders instead of pushing me away.

My hands held his waist as I tried to get closer to him. Hands that roamed up and down his side and over his back as his own traveled through my locks.

Our kiss would break apart for only a second for breath before pressing against his own once more. Every ounce of anger. Every sense of betrayal and hurt I made known. I continued pressing forward, tilting his jaw upwards as his knees began to go weak. I couldn't tell if it was from the few tears I felt rather than saw go down his cheek or the heat of the moment.

It was as if all the emotions between us, around us, the ones that made us decided to flare at that moment and only motivated the other to continue despite the need to breathe or the unspoken words that wanted to be said.

"Two years," I growled as I nipped his bottom lip between my teeth. The gasp that resonated sent shudders along my spine as John's tongue battled against my own. Dominance ensued as we clashed, hands not knowing where to go, minds even more confused on what to do. I could hear John panting in front of me and knowing that I was doing that sent a spur of heat down to parts that made me groan at his growing confidence.

"I know," John replied in between kisses, moving his entangled hands to intertwine around my neck. Getting on his toes, his tongue gently traced the borders of my lips before he whispered. "And I'm sorry."

Hearing him apologize is what eventually broke our moment as much as it started it.

Because I didn't like hearing John apologize even though it was much needed. Even though his reason was what I wanted and I wished for nothing more than to understand why it was necessary to keep me away from him all this time, I didn't want to physically _hear_ him apologize. It didn't make the pain better and it didn't help the situation between the both of us.

When I pulled away, John leaned into my shoulder, trying to catch his breath, not that I was any different.

"Two years," I repeated softly as John backed up to peer at my face. His hands remained comfortably balanced on my waist as he offered a bright smile.

It was the smile that made me realize John was a different man than two years ago. The genuine smile that I knew he had but had never seen before marked it. It was the John before the Army and before becoming my blogger. It was the John before the mission that ruined him. It was a happier John. If I had any opinion on the matter, I would say that he looked happier than I have ever seen him in a long time.

Grabbing one of his hands in my own, I intertwined the fingers. Without a thought, I brought the back of his hand to my lips and kissed it softly.

John was immediately flushed and all but sputtered, "What was that about?"

I tilted my head in thought before replying. "A promise."

"A promise?"

I nodded. "Between us both." After saying this, I watched as John's face went blank before growing slowly into apprehension and distress.

"Sherlock. I don't know if I can make a promise and…"

"John. I don't mean something as trivial and demanding as what you may be assuming," Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted one of the scars from his "demise" and kissed it softly. A noise came out of John's throat as he watched me that sent a knife through my heart. "I merely ask for your companionship again. Nothing more unless you wish."

"Besides," I perked up, smirking. "I have a case. A father was killed and the son is being accused of the murder since he was seen with the gun that shot his father. Witnesses saw them arguing, but they did not see who pulled the trigger. The Yard is quick to name the son as the culprit, but I doubt they are right."

John's distress nearly vanished in the light of his amused grin. "Of course it isn't that easy, now is it, Sherlock?"

I scoffed. "Obviously." Smiling at the small banter I had missed these two years, I continued. "I have a lead and I'm positive I can do it by myself.

"But," I interrupted whatever John was going to say. "I would be alone without my blogger."

Instead of an immediate answer, John took a step closer and used his other hand to tilt my chin so my lips would meet his. It was a chaste kiss in contrary to the hunger from before. An accepting exchange.

"Of course," he rolled his eyes when he backed away once more, smirking. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. As you say, the case is on."

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><p><em>AN: Finally for those who read the books, like I do, I did reference one of the cases heavily with little touches to not make it completely copying it. Like, in the story the son didn't get shot and all that. _

_The case, for those who are wondering, was called the Boscombe Valley Mystery in the books. I'd read it. I mean, I found it fairly interesting, hence why I referenced it as heavily as I did. :)_


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